


I remember you

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Novel, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-30
Updated: 2003-09-30
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: After Scully's death, Mulder suffers from anterogade amnesia. He goes out to look for his partner's murderers, seeking them in a very close circle. All he has to go on, are clues left to himself. This story is based on the movie "Memento".





	I remember you

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

I remember you

## I remember you 

### by Humbuggie

I remember you 

A fan fiction-novel  
By Humbuggie  
2003 

Storyline spoiler: I remember her.   
And then I remember nothing at all. 

Background: the brilliant thriller Memento inspired this story. If you haven't seen it yet, go buy it! Rent it! Whatever it! "The most common form of memory disorder involves difficulties in forming new memories. A severe example is anterogade amnesia, a rare condition that can result from brain injury or disease. Someone with anterogade amnesia will generally have good memory for the past, up until the time of the brain injury, but will have extreme difficulty remembering anything that has happened since then." \-- Source: <http://www.memory.rutgers.edu/>

Type: UST, MT, ST, Angst, Skinnertorture, and so much more. Rated: PG for a bit of strong language now and then. 

I hear your footsteps like you're walking I hear your voice like you're talking to me I can reach every moment   
Every caress like I'm living a dream 

Yeah, I remember you  
Feels like it was yesterday 

You shared my secrets and my laughter   
I fell in love with the light in your eyes And I believed that summer   
Would go on and on for the rest of my life 

  * Roxette 



I remember you 

Part One 

Chapter one: Time means nothing to me 

Where am I? I'm driving a car that I don't know. It feels unfamiliar. It could be anyone's car. A rental perhaps. I blink my eyelids, letting go of the steering wheel as my mind returns to this moment of apprehension. Oh god. I know nothing. 

Losing its controller, the vehicle swerves rapidly to the right. It cannot proceed without me. I am the driver, I come to realise. Numbly, my hands grab for the wheel and keep a hold of it, as if I've never done anything else. Yet it feels as if I have been in a recent car crash, for my hands ache and my body seems sore. I have been in enough crashes in my time to know the symptoms by heart. All muscles hurt as if shaken around by an unseen force, not even to mention the seatbelt injury that hurts my chest. 

I render my mind onto automatic pilot, regaining control over the situation. My instincts are in full gear. My mind is on alert. Inside its damaged cocoon, my brain works a zillion miles per hour. I struggle regain the physical strength required to actuate. 

I know I have to do a few things: drive. Guide the vehicle. You've done it for years. You can do it again. 

Secondly: look around you. Why can't you remember a thing? How did you get here? Who are you? No, scratch that last question. You know who you are: Fox Mulder, FBI-Agent. You work in D.C. You had a partner named Scully, two fish called Vic and Liz. You have a job, an apartment, and a lot of headaches. You're the FBI's Most Unwanted. That did not alter, I am sure. 

There's an empty bag of Mexican potato chips lying on the floor at the passenger seat, and a near-empty bottle of Coke rolls back and forth, annoying the hell out of me. 

Third challenge: where am I?   
I glance outside the clean windows. I'm on a freeway. It's warm outside, and the skies are perfectly blue. There is sand beside the lanes, nothing but dust and pebbles that lay here for years. Desert area. The sandy hills seem untainted. No one walks here. I can tell it's enormously hot. The air-conditioning inside the car is blowing wind in my face at full force and it is - let me check my watch - ten a.m. in the morning. 

There's a brightly coloured pink Post-It sticking to the steering wheel, covering the BMW-logo. Hey, I'm driving a Beamer. If you don't remember where and what you are, at least do it in style. There are a few words written on the crumpled note in my own handwriting: Anterogade amnesia. It seems an old, worn down piece of paper, fumbled with regular handling, by the looks of it. 

There's more: Polaroid photos. Pictures, fragments from my past maybe. Or my present? They lay on the seat next to me. I pick them up. There are several distorted, yellow-coloured photographs that must have been taken not so long, but already seem abused by extensive use. They too are torn and the patina often crackled, as if they have been sticking in my pocket for eternity. 

There are words written on them. I would have to stop to read what is on them, afraid that a part of my mixed up brain is going to forget how to control this vehicle, when I try and multitask. 

I know what Anterogade amnesia is. I remember doing a case about this guy who had it before - 

Before what? I freeze and remember. 

Before Scully was killed. 

I almost lift my hands from the wheel, as the worst of all nightmares returns to haunt my spirit. Before she was murdered, I repeat in my skull. I remember that. I recall her perfectly. I remember the fear, the exhaustion and the defeat. 

I bethink that I'm not supposed to recall anything. I don't know how I got here or what I'm doing here, but I know that I can talk, drive and think. And I fathom that I am not supposed to retain the last minutes, hours or perhaps even days. Yet I exist. For now that's enough. 

A loud groan coming from the back of the car startles me, almost sending us swerving off the road into the dirty ditch that separates us from the dusty land. 

There is someone else in the car! 

I glare into the rear-view mirror, and see a figure lying sprawled out on the backseats. 

The car swerves off the road, ending on the emergency lane. I don't bother turning the engine off. I rush out, open the backdoor and stare in shock at Assistant-Director Walter S. Skinner lying on his side, face turned towards the front seat. His feet have slipped off the seat, and he's somewhere in the land of oblivion. He's bleeding above the left ear from a huge gash, and has a lump the size of a large hen's egg. 

I know him quite well. No, scratch that. I know him through and through. He is probably the one person in the world that I trust now that Scully is dead. I know as much about him as I know about myself. 

I can recall the many cases we worked on together, and the friendship he's shown me over the years. Yet he lies unconscious in the back of my car, and that is damning while I vowed to find and destroy the man who did this to her. 

I know that that man's name is John Marshall. Then why is Skinner here? 

I look down at my own right hand and see blood on it, and other smaller cuts. I hold my breath and bite my lip, trying to at least remember something. I know it's futile. I researched Anterogade amnesia before, you see. That last case we did had a man with the same condition in it. I know all the details. Resistance is futile. 

I grab the photos lying on passenger seat, taking a closer look at them. There is the picture of a hotel and a room with a number scribbled below it. Then there's a woman with beautiful blonde hair and a gorgeous face; another woman smiling from behind a reception area. A pub, a restaurant and a tavern or something, with the words written under it: Don't go here. Food sucks! 

Suddenly Skinner appears. He looks stressed peering into the camera lens, smiling that weird grin he has whenever he feels nervous. The photo is taken from behind glass, looking down on him. He probably did not know this one was being taken. 

Underneath his face, I have written: "He knows." 

I feel my body go rigid with alarm. This cannot be. 

I blink my eyelids and stare at the picture for a few seconds, my eyes darting from Skinner, taking in his serious reflection on the Polaroid. It's him. He is involved. He knows. 

How can I distrust my own handwriting? It is the only thing in this world that I have left that looks familiar and trustworthy. I don't have Scully anymore, or anyone who can help me. I have Skinner, but then why does hope obliterate itself when I decipher my jotted down notes? 

I remember Scully's death so clearly, and he was there. She had her hands in mine and shifted down the hill, grasping on to me for her life. She was horrified. I could hear her screams. The ledge no longer held us. My hands - never sweaty - sweated profusely. She slipped away from me, and then she was gone. 

I recall an enormous blow to the back of my head, obliterating everything in my world. The blow crushed my skull, destroyed my senses and made me a fucking mental cripple, leaving me useless to everyone. 

Since then, I must have gone after the killer. I found a second Post-It note scribbled with words, in the stack of photos. 

`Find John Marshall in his hometown. He had help.' 

There is no other solution possible then. Skinner is that `help'. I must be near Marshall's hometown. I remember that he lived in some dreaded hole in the middle of the desert near Vegas. This is not where he killed Scully. Knowing myself, I must have been mad with grief, going after the man who demolished our lives. It would seem the one thing left to do. And then what? Will I have a purpose after that? 

There is another photograph of a locker inside a train station. Below it I have written: "The truth". I fold up in the palm of my hand. I know the truth. My gut feeling tells me so. I don't need to know if that locker is explaining everything to me. Perhaps I don't want to know. 

Skinner groans louder and stirs, and I know that I don't have much time to finish my task. Frantically I stare at the scenery, hoping for something that might help me. I pass a sign. In the far distance, I can make out a few houses, perhaps a gas station. I hop in beyond the wheel again and drive the BMW Jeep as fast as I dare. My hands ache and I have a headache the size of Mount Rushmore now. 

I must have knocked Skinner out. I must have written that memo. So Skinner knows the truth. He knows who did this to me; to Scully. He was involved. He finally ruined us. He never was the friend I took him for. He did it all to gain our trust. 

I start thinking frantically, causing my headache to worsen. My mind might only work for half of the time, so I don't know how long I can hold on to these memories. Will I lose them again? Before that, it must be done. I will kill him and then it will be over. I will take a photo of Skinner's body, stick it up and convince myself he was the one. But will I remember why I have murdered? 

I need more answers. 

If I were me, where would I have hidden something? If this is a rental car, or if it belonged to me, I would have taken the most logical place: the glove compartment. Clutching to the wheel, I leaned forward to open it and a notepad and pen almost drops out. Behind it lays a Polaroid camera. I see my handwriting, over and over again. I hold it on my lap while driving and quickly scan the words and sentences. Good thing the road is nearly deserted. 

The same phrase over and over: Skinner killed Scully. Skinner killed Scully. Skinner killed Scully. I have written the words in big curvy letters. There it is. I drive. Keep on driving. Concentrate on that. 

Another sentence written in small letters on the bottom: Take him to the Quarry and finish him. Route 44, behind exit 23. 

I swore. Right before I passed out, I swore I would kill the one who ended Scully's life. Even if that's Skinner, I would do it. 

I just passed the Route 44-crossing. Without giving it a second thought, I veered the car to the left, forcing it over the central reservation dividing both sides of the freeway, and rushed back into the other direction. No one crashed into me, no one saw. The Route was as desolate as my heart. 

"I have a condition," I spoke out aloud and my voice sounded like that of a stranger's. "Anterogade amnesia." 

I know what the condition is like, what it does to people. Up until the moment someone, or something crashed into my head and destroyed that part to my brain that makes us rebuild short-term memories, I can recall every bit of my life. 

I recall all of our cases, the people we have met and the heartaches we have witnessed. I remember Samantha's abduction, my parents dying and Scully's sister being murdered. All of that is still there. 

However on the night Scully died, all of the new memories that any normal human being's brain creates can no longer be made. I don't know what's happened to me over the past days, weeks, months or perhaps even years. 

Time is oblivious. Time is useless, senseless and lonely. I don't know how long it has been. I don't recall how old I am now, or how long I have been doing this. I cannot remember anything. Nothing. Nada. Niente. 

So you see: my handwriting is the only thing I can trust. I would not have written things I find dangerous, or which would be untrue. I am the only one I can trust. The only one I can care for now. 

So I follow the directions towards the quarry, driving on this unknown route. Yet I must have spent time here, otherwise I would not know about the quarry. A bottle of tablets pokes out from my right pocket. I reach into it and find the nearly empty small prescription bottle. Little white pills in there. A label that says: One at 5 p.m. 

It's early morning, I shouldn't be taking it, I'm sure, but I don't care. Perhaps this headache is related to the memory loss. I stuff one in my mouth, dangerously lean forward to get the bottle of warm coke, flip the cap off, and swallow it. The pill gets stuck in my throat and I have to work mucho saliva up to get it through. Horrible. 

I park the car like I'm a Formula 1 speed racer, just in time for my boss to wake up in the back. He groans more and reaches for his head. I wish I had a gun. Wait, maybe I do. I rummage through the glove compartment again and find my familiar weapon behind the Polaroid camera. Strange, if I've been fired from the Bureau - I cannot imagine that they would keep an agent with a memory condition like mine in service - I should not have that gun with me. I should not have a badge either, but there it is. 

However, I have no time to think about it. I have a mission to accomplish: killing Skinner: destroying the man who tore our lives apart. I lock the car door, after I leave it standing. 

The quarry turns out to be a pit filled with huge rocks and looks like an ancient Celtic grave. I can see something that looks like a cave or tunnel behind the stacks of rocks, and I pull away some of the lighter boulders. The rocks seem to give way as soon as I work on them. Someone placed them here like this. 

Having made my decision, I open the backdoor and start dragging Skinner out. He's heavier than I am and not really cooperative. The blow to his head obviously knocked him around good. He's like a ton of bricks in my arms. I pull him to the ground and he grunts as his back hits the dust. He can't move, but he starts to speak, but I just carry on dragging him towards the depths of hell. My mind is a blank; my thoughts are far away somewhere. I'm not myself, but who am I really? Who ever could this man be, doing this to someone else? 

He starts to struggle and I release his legs. His clothes are torn, his arms are bleeding in several places and I'm pretty sure his back is one bloody mess too. I'm beyond caring. If this is where fate brings me, then it should be this way. 

"Wait!" he grunts, crying out in pain when the shock wears off. He struggles to open his eyes and finally I can see into them. He is without his glasses: I have no idea where they are; probably lost where I knocked him over the head. 

We're near the quarry now. All I have to do is shoot him in the head, bury him and forget there ever was a Walter Skinner. That won't be difficult to do, will it? I won't even remember shooting him. What a hoot. Talk about the irony of our fates. He killed himself, didn't he? 

He seems to know now who I am. "Mulder -" 

His speech is confused and slurry, and even without the glasses, he must see the expression on my face. My guess is that he's been unconscious for at least a couple of hours. I probably gave him a concussion too. None of that matters now. 

"What are you doing?" he asks. 

"You know," I say and he crawls until he gets up onto his knees. "I want to finish this. Don't move! I swear I'll blow your head off." 

"Why?" He's dazed and confused, and his face speaks of the fear that I want him to experience. "What did I do to you?" 

"You destroyed my life." 

"I didn't!" 

"Lying bastard!" 

He seems able to retort more eagerly now. His eyes become focused, but he's still on his knees and no longer moves. "You used to trust me, Mulder. Who do you trust now?" 

"Only myself." 

"You put your faith in me. I have helped you. You asked me to come over -" 

"Only to kill you!" 

"You can't kill me." 

"Like hell I can't," I hear myself say. "You killed her, didn't you? Why? What did she have on you? Were you in on someone's sick little plans to ruin us? Go to hell, you bastard!" I aim my gun at his heart and wait. "Do you have anything else to say?" I ask. 

"Are you going to execute me?" 

"What does this look like?" I mutter.  
"Mulder, please listen!" 

"I won't remember," I grin. "Not ever. All I know is that she's gone and you were the one who sold us out." 

"Mulder, listen to me!"   
"Too late," I mutter. Because at this moment I become one again. I have to do this, to end the life that's been shattered. 

I pull the trigger ... and for one infinite second, I feel absolutely nothing. My eyes shut, and I slump downwards, as if I have lost all of my strength in seconds. I drop the gun, and I sleep. 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

Scully, I miss you.   
I never thought I would be sitting here in some dump of a hotel room thinking of you, saying things to you that you will never get to hear. I wish I could tell you how badly your death hurts me, but it's useless. Nothing can express that feeling that lives within me now. 

I cared for you, Scully. You are the one that made my life complete. Your care was more than I could ever imagine. Your interests and appreciation of my work were more than I deserved. 

I still care for you. That will never stop. 

I don't even care about my memory. That is just an annoyance in this pathetic little life I'm experiencing right now. It is a nuisance that precludes finding your killer quickly. It will only bide John Marshall and his companion the time they need. 

Remember all the times we spent together, Scully? I hope so. I hope you are in your paradise now, and remember me. 

Because I remember you. 

I'll never stop remembering you. This condition I suffer from, will not stop that. I will fight it, and the ones who forced us into this situation. I swear to you, that I will kill him. I don't care who he is. He can be a stranger, or he can be someone close to us. He can be Skinner. 

I will kill him. 

I made that vow to you the second I watched you die, and I intend to keep it. I no longer care about my own life. I have found all the truths that I need. I know now that perhaps it's time to stop living all together. 

After all, what do I still have to live for? 

Chapter two: Salving darkness 

I feel sore and hurt. My entire being aches as if I've dragged about over bricks. I wonder why I feel so numb. I am walking towards a car. It's a BMW. Hey, cool wheels. It looks like a rental and probably is. I don't think I would buy such an exquisite vehicle myself. 

I stop and look around. I'm on a brightly lit parking space near a gas station. In the far distance I can hear the slight humming of some cars passing the freeway now and then. I probably stopped to take a leek or something. Have I done it already? I wait. Okay, yep. The bladder feels empty and my hands smell as if they are freshly washed. Good thinking, Mulder. You can still do your daily hygiene chores. 

Have I eaten? I try to sense if I have a rumbling feeling in my stomach and decide that I am all settled. I do carry a bag of Mexican potato chips and a bottle of coke. So I decided to munch. That always seems like a good idea of course, especially when you've lost your short-term memory ability, and don't recall if you've munched out ten minutes earlier. Since my tummy doesn't feel swollen or too upset, I gather that I haven't eaten loads of greasy things before now. 

Okay, just keep on walking. I'm sure you've had a meaningful purpose in life heading towards this gorgeous Beamer with a bag of potato chips in one hand, and a chilled coke in the other. I open the car door and slide in behind the wheel. 

It's damned humid out there. You can almost hear the buzzards munching on little animal corpses too. It gives you a sense of loneliness and despair. I suppose that any normal human being would not be caught dead sitting here alone in this car, but then I am not any human. I am me, a man without a recent past, present or future. A man, who has decided to drop everything that means something in life, ... and kill. 

That's what I am worried about. Would I really be able to kill if push comes to shove? I have thought about dying so many times, if I even still know my own state of mind, that is. I've wanted to destroy myself before and I know that I can do it; but when? Will I know it after I killed John Marshall? Will I be able to live on the best and worst way that I can? Will I ever know what I have done? 

I thought that John Marshall had an accomplice: the man who hit me in the back when I saw Marshall standing before me. Marshall killed Scully and the other guy nearly destroyed me. 

Perhaps he did. Perhaps I'm living in a horrible nightmare that will end as soon as I have found Marshall and his aid. 

Just relax, Mulder. You can do it. You're on the brink of madness, but you can still do some reasonable thinking. 

Immediately a number of things come to mind: 

One: I know that I'm suffering from short-term memory loss because I find it natural that I have no memory of where I am, and what I am doing here. 

Two: At least I know who I am. 

Three: I had somewhere to go. I just don't know where. The story of my life, I suppose. Super, isn't it that the man with a photographic memory has suddenly become a useless bastard, because he doesn't even know if he took a piss a couple of minutes ago? 

Four: I need to make a note to myself to shave. I feel as if I'm touching cactuses when I rub my chin. 

Five: another mental piece of information I somehow need to jot down before I forget it again: Get a shower. You smell horrible! Yet I have this strange sensation that I might have taken one earlier today. It could have been last year, for all I care of course. 

Six: I think I might have done something bad. I feel horribly sore, and there are cuts on my arms that say I probably ran into a glass window or something. 

Seven: Stop thinking, and start writing before you forget points one to six again. 

I turn on the knob so the radio starts playing. Instantly the air-conditioning blows air in my face. It feels cool, yet warm at the same time. I know I should be turning off the radio in order to spare the battery, but for now I don't care. Perhaps I'll think about it later too. 

Radiohead's Paranoid Android is on. I love that song. Scully often sang to it. She had a good voice, even though she does a lousy `Joy to the world.' Tears spring in my eyes, forcing back the memories that come to sting me like sharp knives. To me she died yesterday. I watched her die then. I can remember her screams, her anguish and her mortal fear. 

She told me once that she was not afraid to die anymore. She's had a near-death experience after her abduction and believed there was nothing to fear. However, every human being cries out when it dies, just like every animal struggles to grasp that last bit of life given to it. 

Scully was no different than anyone else. Her death did not come gently or sweet. It came harsh, rough and destructive. It was a useless death, a meaningless one. She should not even have been standing on that ledge, but Marshall was ruthless and evil. He had no regard for human life. 

I switch channels until I found some stupid midnight talk show. I don't start the car, even though I am not sure what I am waiting for. Funny, how I can remember bands names and music, but not what I had for breakfast this morning. 

Inside this expensive car - it has to be a rental - I recognize notes and photos that will help me. There are a couple of things lying on the seat next to me, that I obviously left there nonchalantly when buying the chips and coke. I tear open the pack and start nibbling on them. Mexican chips are my favourites. I love Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice-Cream too. I don't think the midnight store at the gas station would've had that, or I would have bought some. Perhaps, if I can remember it long enough, I might go back in and see if I can find it. 

I scan the insides of the car to see if I recognize something that might help me. I have no memory, but somehow that doesn't feel strange to me. It feels awfully familiar actually. It's like meeting an old friend for dinner, only you don't know what you're going to serve, because you'd forgotten he'd be coming around. 

My mind seems to accept that I'm sitting behind the steering wheel doing nothing, going nowhere. I have no destiny, no path, and no goal. I see a Post-It note stuck to the wheel. Anterogade Amnesia, it reads in my own penmanship. Sounds like a horrible disease, and I actually know what it is. I remember a case not so long ago. This guy had it. I know what it's like, and what it does, because we researched it. 

Now I have it. So I obviously knew previously that I did. 

My heart aches suddenly. I recall what has caused this. It is the last thing that happened to me right after Scully died. She fell over a ledge, careening down a hill covered with rocks and sharp stones that would kill in an instant. There were trees all the way down the ledge too, but they never broke her fall. I wanted to go after her, over the edge, to find her body, but as I moved, something struck me from behind, plunging me straight into oblivion. Yes, those recollections are still trapped inside my skull. 

I know myself. I know what I would have done. I would seek out her murderer and let him pay for this. That is probably why I am here right now, going through the stacks of photos that lay on the seat next to me. 

Scully. 

Just thinking about her creates a piercing ache in my heart. When did she die? How long ago was this event? Has it been a days, or have I been searching for her killer my entire life? I pull the rear-view mirror towards me to scan my face. Yes, that's me. I don't seem much older than when she died. I am not an old, disgusting man who devoted his life to pursuing him. I might be close. I don't know. I do have a gash on my forehead and I almost seem like I've been beaten up. I was definitely in some sort of an accident. 

I find pills in my pocket. The label reads: One at 5 p.m. I glare at my watch. Nearly 1 a.m. and I have a simmering headache that the Mexican chips did not resolve. Great. Perhaps those pills will help. To hell with 5 p.m. 

I stuff one in my mouth and swallow it, almost draining the bottle of coke. Replacing the lid, I leave a bit in it for later, dropping the bottle on the floor. The chips are gone. I throw the wrapper next to the bottle and sigh. I need to do something, I suppose. Sleep maybe, and wait until it's early morning. I just can't. I'm wide-awake and eager to learn more. Tomorrow morning I will probably not be able to recall anything. 

I grab the notepad lying on top of the photos and read. John Marshall, scumbag, one of my jots says. Underneath it I have scribbled his address. I also have the file on him that I probably stole from my own office. I think I'm in the dessert somewhere, in or near a town close to Vegas. He lives there. Or did. 

I have this vague hope that he might be dead already, but it's probably not true. Otherwise I would not be here. My gut feeling tells me I'm still looking for the truth. I'm on my own, but I will find it. 

My eyes catch something in the rear-view mirror. Shocked and dazed I turn around to see a man lying in the back of the car. He is sprawled out over the seat and seems completely out of it. He's obviously unconscious and unresponsive. 

Immediately, I know who he is. I see the head, face and body of Assistant-Director Skinner ... and there is a note in my right hand that says `He knows.' 

Oh god. 

I've obviously made my mind up about killing him. I was the one who knocked him out: I can tell by my hands covered in his blood. I wince as I twist my body around to take a closer look at him, to see if he's already dead. He isn't. I can feel a faint pulse. I don't know if I should be happy with that or distressed. 

I see my gun lying next to me. Would I be able to pull the trigger on him right now? Shoot his fucking brains out and get it over and done with? An intense anger takes over my senses. I have him to thank for this. It has to be this way. 

I perceive the information I have given myself, taking in the stack of notepads, photos and stupid little Post-It notes that probably get lost as times passes us by. 

This salving darkness that surrounds us, forces me to become a prisoner within this car; my body and mind in a quandary until there is a way to re-grasp all that's important to me. I am here, with Skinner, and with the wisdom of truth. I hold the man prisoner who became my enemy, over the course of the past eternity. I cannot imagine that I have helped Skinner escape a more ugly fate; fleeing maybe from someone who is after us. If I were his saviour instead of his captor, would I not have delivered him to a hospital instead of this desolate nightmare? 

No, I have to accept that I took Skinner prisoner, and that I did it with a reason, a specific purpose. The intent to kill him breathes and surges inside of me, and I can feel it blistering my soul. I will have had many ideas about this, many ways to deal with him. I have a note that tells me to bring him to a quarry to kill him. Have I stopped the car here because I don't know my way around this dark place, and had to wait until the return of the blazing desert sun could guide me towards that spot? For someone like me it would be a disaster to drive around mindlessly. I would either kill or be killed. 

I try to stir Skinner, but he doesn't move. Then I reread all of my notes over again, trying to grasp all that had obviously become clear to me in the past. 

Oh yes, I know all about Anterogade amnesia. 

There was this guy. His name was Jack McCauley and he had the same condition, or disease, if you can call it that. Jack was a normal, regular forty-year old banker who had everything he ever wanted in life. He had a wife, two kids, a good job obviously and a bunch of friends whom he cared for, but you see the thing is, that one day, Jack decided he'd enough of life and wanted to step out of it. It probably had to do with that gorgeous mistress he had set up in Manhattan. He loved to go to New York of course, but instead of spending his nights in super deluxe hotel rooms, he spent them with his girl. 

Until one day that beautiful girl was found dead in her apartment. Apparent suicide. Our Jack was so infatuated by her, that he took the plunge, literally, and was found floating face up after jumping off a cliff at Cape Cod. 

And there lies the irony of the fate of Jack McCauley. Instead of being killed, he was saved. The freezing cold water kept him alive long enough for a few men to pull him out and resuscitate him; but he had an enormous gash on the side of his head, and he was diagnosed with irreversible brain damage. 

When he woke up in his hospital bed, he saw his wife, smiled and greeted her. He seemed to have forgotten how and why he had gotten there. Until a few moments later, he started to remember what he had done. 

The thing is that the second time he saw his wife, he again greeted her and asked her what happened. And the third time, and the fourth, and the fifth. Every time they had to repeat to him that he'd had an accident and was not well. 

No one believed him. Of course they didn't. They thought he was playing games with them, and so did his wife. She decided to test him. The next time she came into his room, she convinced him of the fact he had been in hospital for two weeks for psychic evaluation - which he wasn't, he had only been there for two days - and asked him to tell her the truth about his affair. She'd known about it for ages, and decided to steer him into a confession. He was in tears as he told her everything. She smiled, told him she forgave him and left. 

An hour later she returned and did the same. He did not remember what he had told her previously, and again burst out into tears whilst telling her the whole story. She watched in amazement at the game she thought he was playing, and became upset with him. It was bad enough that he had lied behind her back for so long, she thought but to keep lying again and again? No, she couldn't stand that. 

Yet somehow, in the back of her mind, she began to believe him. It was then that she decided to abuse his ordeal for her own benefit. How better to kill her wealthy husband who had a death wish anyhow, than to misuse his illness against himself? Even if the doctors didn't believe that he had this condition - because there were no real frames of reference to establish - she would put him to the ultimate test, which would eventually cost him his life. 

Scully and I were at the hospital at the time of Jack McCauley's admittance. We had just solved a case and had put our suspect in hospital - a well-aimed shot to the shoulder by yours truly did it - and heard doctors talk about McCauley. 

Scully, fascinated by it, told me the details about anterogade amnesia. I did some research on it too. She went to see the man, talked to him and came back to tell me she believed he was the genuine article. I remember her interest so well: she was almost as giddy as a child to see someone with this rare condition. I saw Jack McCauley once, right before we left the hospital, and told the doctors I believed he was the real thing. He wasn't faking it. If he did, he was a damned good actor. 

A few days later we heard that he was dead, and his wife had been arrested for his murder. Every hour since she'd brought him home, she had fed her husband one of the pills he'd been prescribed to take for extreme migraines. It was strong medication and should only be taken once a day. She fed him one, and then an hour later told him he still needed to take it. She repeated that over and over again until he fell into a deep coma, and ultimately died during the first night of his homecoming. 

She told the doctors she didn't know he had been taking them: she had paid no attention; however, they didn't believe her. Her fingerprints were on the prescription bottle, she should have warned him and guided him through it. The fact that she did nothing to aid her husband, made the cops suspicious. 

It didn't take too long to get her to crack. She admitted she wanted him dead and she pulled it off. 

"What use is a freak to me?" she had said. 

So that's what I call myself now: a freak. Someone with anterogade amnesia can no longer create short-term memories. He lives through the day and becomes old like anyone else, but he doesn't know what he has done an hour beforehand. He does not know his age, or how long he has been going through this. 

Neither do I. 

All I know is that my watch tells me it's June 15, 2003. I think Scully died on the 7th of June of this year. That means that I have been wandering about for a week now; the first week of my new life. 

Welcome to the world, Mulder. 

Skinner is obviously not going anywhere right now, so I step out of the Beamer and pace around it. What to do? I need to kill Skinner and take a picture of his body to persuade myself that I have found the answers. What do I know thus far? Let's face some details: 

Fact: Skinner brought us on the John Marshall-case. He knew Marshall from `Nam; they had been comrades. He must have known Marshall had paranormal abilities. What if he wanted to protect Marshall? What if Marshall had saved his ass back then? 

Fact: Marshall pushed Scully over the ledge. He watched us struggle. I lost my grip on her hands and she fell. I wanted to attack Marshall. His accomplice knocked me over. Skinner was at the scene too, but was very conveniently away from the site when Scully died. He might have been Marshall's handyman, standing behind me and ready to knock me out. 

Fact: Marshall escaped and has not been seen since. 

Fact: Scully is dead. 

Fact: I have this condition. 

According to my own notes Skinner found me here in Red Town and wanted to take me back to D.C. We argued a few times. 

Why would he come here in the first place? Was he here to stop me from killing Marshall? Or was he here to help me? 

No; he must have been here for the first reason. My own handwriting screamed back at me telling me he couldn't be trusted now. `He knows'. What does he know? The real truth about the setup that destroyed our lives? Was it his intent to get rid of us in the first place? 

What did I not know? 

Why? 

Nothing in my notes explained that to me. Why had he done it? Was he bribed? Overwhelmed with friendship for Marshall, stronger than what he had for us? Did Marshall save his ass in `Nam and had he promised something in return? A cover-up, maybe? 

Someone, help me. 

Scully, tell me what to do. 

I miss her so badly. Standing out here in the humid air I feel so desperately lonely. I need her strong-willed stubbornness, her input and advice, and her help. If I am to go through this for the rest of my life, I need someone by my side that can offer me support and care. Someone who knows how to deal with all this confusion and save me. Save me from destroying myself from the sour oblivion that comes as time passes by. 

What have I left now? 

I lock the car and walk back to the gas station shop, only a few hundred yards away. I hear a woman moan and look at a van parked nearby. The vehicle shakes. A stab of jealousy rushes through me. I will never know how to love again. How can I find someone like that when I won't even remember who it is? My memory will not be able to grasp that intense feeling of ultimate passion that comes as time passes by. I would look at the same woman over and over again, and never even recall falling in love with her. 

I don't even know if there could be anyone else after Scully. I know that I loved her, even though she was never my mate. If I will ever allow myself to think that way about someone. 

I shake my head, focusing on the few pebbles before my feet and hurry into the shop. A firmly built, tattooed man stares at me. 

"Back again?" he says. "What do you want now?" 

I look at him. "I've been in here before, right?" 

"Yeah. Twice now. Are you making fun of me?" 

"No," I hasten to add. "I have a condition that - well, I can't -" 

"-Rebuild memories? Yeah, yeah, you said that before too." 

I tilt my head a bit. "Did I ask if you had Ben & Jerry's before too?" 

He groans. "Yes, and I said "no" twice to to that." 

"Oh. Okay." 

"Now, are you going to buy something useful, or bother me again in a few moments?" 

"I'll write down a note to me saying I shouldn't," I grin evilly and return outside. Okay, someone else I pissed off. Good work, Mulder. I'm sure that he'll be telling his story about the forgetful-geek-who-wouldn't-stay-away for the next days or so. 

Perhaps, when they find my body after I've thrown myself off a cliff, as steep as Jack McCauley's choice, they'll go, "Remember that nutcase that couldn't remember? Well, there ya go." 

This is not the way to end our lives, Scully, but there is nothing to be done about it. I'm here, and you are in Heaven, or so I hope. You know I'm not a Christian. I can only pray that you're somewhere where you are taken care of, and that you're watching me. And that you are not slightly pissed that I'm about to kill Skinner. 

Can anyone become a murderer? 

Yes, I believe they can. 

I don't even know that, when I go to sleep, I will wake up with the same dysfunction of recollection that I exist in now. 

I have to hope. 

It's better than nothing, is it? 

I return to the car and shove everything into the glove compartment: the gun, my badge, and the notepad. I just leave the photos and Post-It's because they are my best friends. They tell me who I have become and why I'm doing this. 

I liked you, Scully. You were my haven. Will my killing the people responsible bring back peace into my life? Will I ever see you again? I hope so. 

In the morning I will head out onto the road and drive to the quarry; and there, I will kill Skinner. 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

There is this movie I saw some time ago. It's about this guy called Leonard who saw his wife die and then suffered from amnesia. 

Isn't it odd that everything that I was and am leads to this point, Scully? That I - with such a brilliant memory - should be forced to deal with one of the worst fates possible? Yes, I shall never grow old. Yes, I shall never see what my life was like, but it is not a gift. Every time I look into the mirror, I will see a man growing older and more fatigued, and sick maybe, but I won't remember how I became this way. 

I won't even recall how my life passed me by. I'll forget my birthdays, Christmases, Easters and Thanksgivings. I will see people and not recall their intensity or personality. Every day will feel like Groundhog Day. I will repeat it over and over, without growing old inside my mind. My body will not follow, unfortunately. 

Is this my ultimate fate, Scully? Shall I end up a helpless man? 

No. 

I will stop that from happening. I just need to finish this job, and then I will forget there ever was a Fox Mulder, brilliant profiler and FBI's Most Unwanted. I will come back to you, and when I die, I will remember what you were like. 

I miss you, Scully. More than I can ever say. I should be carving your name in my arms and legs, or burning it on my skin like Leonard did. Instead, I survive on stupid little notes and meaningless hours. 

I should not think this way, but I do. Every day of my life, I will remember you. 

Chapter three: About stunning BMW's and fabulous women 

Walking. 

Where am I going? I don't know. 

Look around, Mulder. 

A hotel. I'm outside the main concourse of some hotel, walking past the pool towards the reception area. I slow down and shake my head. How did I get here? Why? With whom? Am I alone? I must be. Perhaps I left someone behind in my room. Scully, maybe. 

No, not Scully. She's gone. 

I have things in my hands. I look at them. A gun, strapped in its holster; that's in my right hand. It looks like my weapon. Damn it, why I am carrying it? I see people coming out of their hotel rooms, going towards the lobby. I have to hide it. 

I shove the gun inside the pocket of my leather jacket, and nod at the older man coming towards me. "Good morning," I mumble and pass him quickly. "Mr. Mulder!" the man says loudly, stopping me confused in my tracks, "How's it going today?" 

"Good," I say numbly, wondering who the hell he is. 

"You don't remember me, do you?" he asks. 

I try to retort with something witty, but all I can do is truthfully shake my head. "No." 

"I'm Malcolm! Malcolm Roberts, from 204. We spoke a couple of times. Remember? You are staying in 203, right next door. You're a quiet neighbour even though you did make some noise yesterday. I hope everything's okay?" 

"Sure." 

He looks at me inquisitively. "I guess I'll have to start the introduction again from the beginning, right?" 

"Yes. I -" 

"Yeah, I know. You said before. You have this condition. Some sort of memory loss, was it?" 

"Yeah." 

He taps with a finger on my chest. It feels like a familiar gesture, as if he has done this before. Perhaps he's a creature of habit. Or perhaps I know because that exact spot on my chest feels sore. 

"Don't you worry, son. Some day all the pieces will fall together," he grins broadly, not in the least worried by my confusion. 

He grins broadly again, revealing a near-empty mouth, devoid of all teeth, that were probably once white and shiny. I can smell breath filled with liquor coming towards me. 

"Gotta go," I say. I turn quickly and proceed towards where I think the exit is. 

"Hey, where you in an accident or something?" he yells and waves his hand. 

I continue my trip outside. 

Looking down at my hands again I notice that they seem painful. I touch my forehead and feel a large scratch with my fingers. My face feels sore too. 

Strange, what did I do? 

In my left hand pocket I find photos and a Post-It note that reads: anterogade amnesia. Another note tells me to take my pills at 5 p.m. I glance at my watch. Nearly five. I should probably take them now, but how can I know in a couple of minutes that I have already taken them or not? No, wait until five exactly. At least then I can't get confused. 

Right now my head feels like it's exploding. Perhaps I should take them soon after all. 

I have Polaroid photos in my pocket too. One of them has Skinner grinning awkwardly into the camera. It seems recent. It's not wrinkled, torn or scratched. Is he around here somewhere? A message to me: "He knows." That's all. `He knows.' 

He must be here. I wouldn't write this if he weren't. 

"Mr. Mulder," a voice at the reception alerts me, "Your car is waiting." 

"My car?" I repeat and turn to face a beautiful woman. 

"Yeah, you ordered a rental for five p.m. Don't you remember wrecking the other one?" 

"I wrecked it?" 

"Yeah, you have the bumps to prove it," emphasising her words. 

She's right. My entire body feels kind of wrecked. 

"What happened to me?" I ask the receptionist. 

"You went reckless going around the corner. Lost control over the wheel," she explains. 

"You scared us all. I thought you'd have at least broken a few bones." 

"I don't recall that. You see -" 

"Yeah, yeah, the amnesia thing." She sounds impatient. 

I wonder how many times she has already listened to my story. She looks at me and thinks that I'm a perfectly normal guy on the outside, but a wacky psycho underneath. She's probably terrified of me; her eyes dart nervously and she seems ready to run in case I come nearer. She shoves the car keys onto the counter and makes sure she doesn't make hand contact with me. 

Anterogade amnesia doesn't mean that I'm crazy. It just means that I wouldn't remember if I have fucked this woman's brains out, or not. 

No short-term memory, doll. You were fabulous last night, I'm sure, but I can't remember. Sorry, Let's do it again sometime! It's a physical thing, so you might as well help get me cured. 

I know where I stand. I will grow old and not know how I became a frustrated eighty-year-old guy with nothing to prove, or show for in life. In my mind, I will forever stay forty-two, the age I was when Scully died. As Claudia said in `Interview with the vampire:' I shall never grow up. 

Strange, isn't it? 

I, with the perfect memory, have become a joke. Ah well. 

I decide to get the car. Perhaps then I will know what to do, or I might have to check those Post-It notes and see what I was supposed to do today. I'll just go with the flow. A man is waiting for me: he's tall and dark-haired and obviously works out twenty times a day. I feel small. 

"Fox Mulder?" he says. 

"Yeah."  
"Sign here." 

I do what he asks. He doesn't ask for a passport or anything else in the way of I.D. Neither does not tell me when to bring the car back. I would forget it anyhow until I jot it down on the notepad I found in my pocket. 

"Cya." 

"Yeah, thanks and cya." 

I stand there with the keys in my hand and don't know where I'm going. I see the receptionist waiting for me. She has that look in her eyes again: He's cute, too bad he's a nutter. Perhaps I can screw with his mind. He won't remember anything anyhow. 

My watch lets out a loud alarm. I almost shriek. 

Five p.m. Time to take that pill. 

But where is it? 

I look inside my pockets and find a small bottle. I have taped a torn up part of a Post-It over it. Once every day, it reads. One pill. I dry-swallow it ; it sticks in my throat like glue. Fabulous. I can't lean forward and drink water from the pool, can I? With enough saliva to swallow it I finally manage to get that sour taste out of my throat, and I clasp the keys. 

I open the car door and look inside. Luxury beckons me. It's an amazing car. I wonder if I have too much money, or if I just booked it on the Bureau's expense account. Either way, here I am. 

The guy leaves and I park the car in front of the building where I think I might be staying. There is one large building and a smaller one that also holds rooms. I came from the large one, so I reckon that's where I am. I close the car door, and return to room 203 where the old guy said I was. 

I cross past the pool again and notice a fire escape in the back. The hotel seems kind of sleazy. It's not exactly new and has a dirty feel to it. It's like one of those places you stay because you can't afford a better hotel while travelling through the US, or one where you need to hide out in for a while. I think I fit in the second category. 

So, if that's my room, I should have most of my stuff there. Apart from the gun, badge and my wallet, there should be a duffel bag or a suitcase at least. I have a key in my pocket that holds the same room number. I unlock the door and almost trip. In the hazy darkness it's difficult to make anything out. The curtains are drawn and make the room very dark. From where I stand, I reach to the right and pull at one curtain. Bright light enters the room at once, revealing the tied-up body of Walter Skinner lying on the floor. 

He's conscious and staring at me, terrified. 

My god! 

I close the door rapidly and stare at his body. I step forward and a cracking sound beneath me scares the hell out of me. I look down. His glasses are busted. "Sorry," I mutter, leaning forward to release him from his straps. He has a cloth stuck in his mouth: a tape keeps it in place. 

"Mulder, release me," he says as soon as I have freed his mouth. "Now." I was untying his hands, only to stop and stare at him. Why is he here, in this room? Why is he tied up? Did I do this? I must have, because he's looking accusingly at me. 

"Why did I tie you up?" I ask coolly. 

He relaxes his back and sighs deeply. "Mulder, you're confused and sick. You are not yourself and haven't been since the day Scully fell. You should listen to me. I'm here to help you. You have to let me get you back to D.C. You need medical care and attention. I came here to tell you that." 

"But I attacked you." 

"Yes, you have to remember that!" 

"I don't," I interrupt him bluntly and show him the piece of paper I found in my pocket. 

"Amnesia. I have it, don't I?" 

"Yes," he admits grudgingly. 

"So I don't remember where the hell my life is heading, do I? I'm after Scully's murderer. I must be. It's the last thing I remember. If she's dead, I know I will go after him. I would do that. I would go nuts if I didn't, wouldn't I, sir?" 

"Mulder, it's not what you think. You have to listen to me. You have always trusted me. You should trust me again now. There is nothing else you should do right now. Just untie me and let us deal with this together." 

"Well, I can't do that, can I?" I retorted bitterly. "Because the only reason you would be tied up in here, is because I know the truth. You destroyed us, didn't you? I always thought you were a bastard. A few times I actually believed you had betrayed us, and were working for that smoking scumbag. After all these years the truth has finally revealed itself, hasn't it? You're the one and I wrote a note to myself to prove it." 

"Who do you trust?" he asks coldly. "Your notes or me?" 

I kneel down so our faces are close. He strains to persuade me. It doesn't work. "Wrong question," I say. "I only trust myself." 

"How can you, when you don't know what you've done?" 

I blink my eyelids. "Whatever I've done, I did for the good reason. Tell me, is John Marshall dead, sir?" My voice sounds cold and disrespectful. Good. It seems that I'm in charge here and I want to know why. 

He swallows. "Yeah, he is. He's been dead for over a week. But you don't remember, do you? And in a few hours maybe, you won't remember again. You won't understand how you came to be this way -" 

"Oh, but I do know. I was hit in the back of the head and it destroyed some of my faculties. I'm a raving, grieving lunatic now, sir. I don't think anyone would blame me for killing you. Justification serves me right, doesn't it?" 

"Killing me?" he asks horrified. "Why?" 

I shrug. "Honest to god? I don't know. But I'm sure I have good reason." I stand up and look outside the window. The car is parked below the window. I'm on the ground level. All I have to do is guide Skinner out of that emergency exit, into the car and I'll be on my way. I'm sure I wouldn't be stupid enough to kill him here. They would find me with his corpse, and I wouldn't recall killing him. I don't think I can do it here; or even if I can do it at all. 

"Mulder, you have to hear me out," his voice sounds horrified. "I cannot begin to explain everything to you. I have told you so many times already. You really need to come home with me. It's imperative that -" 

I turn in anguish and force the cloth back into his mouth. "Shut up!" I scream. "I don't want to hear another word from you, bastard!" His eyes close in frustration. I force my mind back into thinking mode. I need to make some conclusion here. 

Skinner is here, tied up. I must have done that to him, because this is my room. That can only mean that I know Skinner's been double-crossing me. He knows that I know about his betrayal. He is afraid. No, afraid doesn't cut it: terrified sounds more like it. 

I kneel down by his side and look straight into his eyes. "I don't listen to you anymore," I whisper calmly. "I won't. Not now. Not ever. We're through." 

He tries to speak but the cloth in his mouth stops him. He just sighs deeply and rests his head on the ground, as if defeated. I turn my back to him and rummage through my bag looking for something to eat. My stomach aches. I must be hungry. 

I will wait for nightfall to leave with Skinner. I'll push him into the car and drive him somewhere. The quarry I have mentioned on a note perhaps. It seems fitting. I'll dump his body there and leave him to the vultures. 

I am surprised, shocked and amazed at the downright fury of my own actions, but I couldn't go back now. This was it. 

However, I felt a strange feeling of satisfaction. 

I must have dozed off a while because I woke up hearing strange, unfamiliar sounds in the room. I'm still in my current memory-lapse. I could tell because I instantly remember where and when I was. 

Skinner's in the room. He is trying to get up. He is up. I get up too, ignoring the instant dizziness that surges through me, lunging after him. He pushes me aside, knocking me to the ground. I get up and hit him on the back of the head with my gun. He goes down without a sound. He still has the cloth in his mouth and his hands are tied. 

I look at him. He opens his eyes and glares at me. I knock him out for the second time, this time hitting his forehead. A huge gash splatters blood across the carpet and bed. "Damn it," I mutter and look outside to see if anyone heard us. How the hell am I supposed to get Skinner into the car now? 

I unlock the door and peer down the hall. I'm the second door to the right, almost next to the fire escape. However it's only nine p.m. someone could come in at any time and see me carrying off his heavy body. I need to wait for a while longer. 

The dizziness subsides slowly. I sit down and munch on a biscuit, hoping that I will remember this long enough to carry Skinner's unconscious form to the car. Then, I'll leave a note to myself telling me what to do with him. 

Time passes by very slowly. Skinner is still unconscious. I untie his hands to help him lie in a better position. I don't think he'll wake up any time soon. He's completely out of it. I wish I could do it here and now. I wish I could put the gun to my head and shoot myself. I want out of this life - or at least this way of living. 

"Scully," I groan as I sit down and watch Skinner. "I miss you." To my shock I find myself crying. I can feel hot tears drip onto my hands. No, don't cry. It's no use. You need to do this. Don't back out now. 

Alas, I am suffering from a heavy, horrified heart when I drag Skinner towards the fire escape around midnight, watching out for anyone coming in and out of the main entrance. We are very much alone. 

I almost wish we weren't. 

I pack up my things and leave the motel room. I clean up the splatters of blood on the dark rug. No one will see this, I hope. I have paid in advance for everything, or so a message to myself tells me. Just leave the keys in the room. 

Slowly I put everything I have in the car: the overnight bag with dirty clothes in the trunk, the photos and notes up front, my remaining belongings next to me, and Skinner is in the back. 

I still have to make a note to remind me of what to do exactly with Skinner's body, and why I should do it, but as I start driving, following my self-made directions, I start feeling very, very tired. I drive up to a parking lot and park the vehicle in the darkest space. 

I have to do something, but what was it again? 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

I have the feeling that today is the last day of my life. 

It's June 15, my watch tells me. Life as I am leading it right now has lasted only a week, yet I have the feeling Scully died this morning. To me, she did. Even when I'm eighty years old, I will remember that she died falling over a ledge, hurled into the trees that at first broke her fall, and then gave up their lofty strength, leaving her to smash onto the rocks below. 

Her terrified cries will stay with me forever. 

Oh, if I could just close my eyes and forget it. 

Once, I thought I would go crazy without her and it turns out that I am. 

I must be. 

I urge my mind to sink into oblivion, yet I want to stay alert for as long as I can. I don't think I sleep much. I want to believe that this amnesia thing only shows up when I'm asleep. I don't think it does. Yet I force myself to try and stay awake, stay with the game and on top of things. 

I don't think it's working. 

Yet somehow, today, I feel that this life is coming to an end. I feel you near me, Scully. Wherever you are, I am there too. A part of my soul is gone. Without my memories, I will never be the same man. 

Without my eidetic abilities, I might as well be a human vegetable tied to machines keeping him alive. 

Without you, I am nothing. 

Is it any wonder then that I dream of putting that gun to my head? 

Long for the end? 

Chapter four: Note to self, escape from Skinner. Or kill him. 

I am hungry, I think. 

My stomach rumbles. 

Message to me: get some food in you. 

"Mr. Mulder," the receptionist calls out when I walk past her with a short nod, "Your rental car will be here around five." 

"Oh. Thank you." I walk further without remembering why I would need a car. 

"Are you okay now? You still look a bit pale." 

I look at her, not understanding, nor comprehending. 

"Oh, you don't remember that you were in an accident, do you?" 

I shake my head. 

"Don't be shocked then when you look into a mirror." Her voice becomes a little bit annoyed, as if she can't stand the fact that I am sick. Although I think I must be. Can't recall much of anything, really. Where was I going, anyhow? 

I turn to her. "Where am I staying? I assume this is my hotel?" 

"Room 203." 

"Oh. Thanks." 

"You're welcome. You have no messages." 

I wouldn't know who could find me here anyhow, I guess. Or someone would be assisting me as I walk through the valley of oblivion. 

I enter the building using the larger of the two keys I have in my hand. I hope that the other one will fit my door. 

I don't know where I come from or how I got here. I did see a taxi speed away after I regained some sort of consciousness. Perhaps he dropped me off here. My hand is bandaged, and I feel a bit under the weather. In fact, make that crappy. It's like something hit me and I kept on bouncing ever since. An accident? Or an attack? Anything could have happened. 

Oh well, it will pass I suppose. 

I unlock the door to my room and walk into darkness. It is a dreary room with pink, faded curtains, a matching spread and blankets, and even worse - matching night-lights. My god. I wonder how anyone could stay in a room like this and not go stark raving mad. The TV probably doesn't even have my favourite porn channels; dumb ass thing. I shudder, switch on a light and am dazed and confused by the amounts of information that lie here. It's all mine, I'm sure. There are notes jotted down in my familiar handwriting, photos that have obviously been taken with the Polaroid camera, lying on a chair, and my overnight bag rests on the table by the window. 

My life has turned into a pathetic little soap opera. I need to find the truth and it escapes me over and over again. 

Let's say what I have here. Lots of notes and things jotted down. 

I sit down, trying to remember the last thing that was embedded in my mind. Oh yes, that blow to the head. That hurt; before that, more startlingly, the tragic loss of Scully. I wonder if this aching feeling inside of me will ever stop. It doesn't feel like it will ever be ok again. 

I walk into the tiny bathroom and flip on a light. Note to self: you look like crap. My face is obviously bruised, and a large scar runs past my left eyebrow over my forehead. It is stitched and little band-aids keep it together. I struggle painfully as I shuck off my shirt and stare at my torso. It is badly bruised too. My belly feels sore and damaged somehow. My shoulder is not doing too good either. I see where the car safety belt cut into my body, irritating the vicious angry scars all over my chest. Good thing I wore that, or I would not be here right now. 

Or, can I really call that a positive point? 

I remove the bandages on my hand and inspect the wounds on top of it. My right hand is scarred too. They both feel sore. It hurts to even move my hand up to my face. I haven't shaved in some time. That is not a five o'clock shadow anymore. More than anything I'm startled by the expression in my eyes. They look cold and numb. The pupils are dilated, probably from the good stuff they gave me in hospital. 

Yes, I am fairly certain now I have been in a hospital. I probably took a taxi to this hotel. 

I decide to take a shower to freshen up and clear the cobwebs out of my head. I need to get a few points straight. The notes told me all I need to know for now. One can manage with notes, you know. It's not so difficult. It's just a drag to see the same people over and over again, and not know their names or their intentions. I wonder if that receptionist fancied me. Perhaps we had a good lay in this very room? 

Nah, I wouldn't do that. Somehow that doesn't feel right. 

I strip, step in the shower and let the hot steady force of water rush over my body. The water feels hard against my skin but I don't complain. I feel alive. 

Have I ever felt like this before? 

After half an hour or so, I reluctantly turn off the shower and dry up using the heavy hotel towels. They smell off some lousy wash softener with a distinct lavender scent. It seems that I don't have many clothes left. Most of them lie dirty inside the stuffed overnight bag. I can't find a suitcase or anything else that carries my stuff. Note to self: go shopping. 

I decide to fish out some jeans that don't seem damaged or soiled. The ones I had on me had blood stains all over them, and seem torn here and there. I might have been wearing that when the accident occurred. My shirt has gone to hell too. In fact, I don't even recognize it. I wonder where I got it. 

I dry my hair and decide to leave my chin unshaven chin for now. I need to get some rest. My body warns me that it has done quite a bit today. Perhaps I should just lie down a bit, close my eyes and take a good nap. Then I should probably decide what to do next. Perhaps someone will come to find me, instead of me going after them. John Marshall, if he is in this town, will be looking for me when he knows I'm here. I should just keep my gun closer to me and wait. 

I slid into the clothes and look at my face. Yes, I suppose I seem a bit better now. If only that blasted headache would go away. I glare at my watch. Four p.m. and nothing to do for the time being. Can anyone actually get bored in life when he has nothing to remember? 

I open the door to the bedroom and toss the wet towel on the bed, and then I hold my breath, reaching for my gun in a flash when a figure steps out of the shadows towards me. A strong hand holds my wrist, preventing me from grasping the gun. 

"What the hell!" I yell when I recognize Skinner's tall form. 

"Mulder, it's me," he says in Scully-fashion, still holding onto me. My fingers grope for the gun but can't reach it. He pushes me gently backwards and waits for me to calm down before releasing my hand. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I hiss, horrified that he would startle me like this. "How did you know I was here?" 

"You told me," he replies. "Remember?" 

I stare angrily into his face. "I don't remember shit. Remember that, sir?" 

He sighs tiredly. "I hoped it would be different by now." 

"How can it be different? Anterogade amnesia is an irreversible condition." 

"That's what I came here to talk to you about," he says, "and we do need to talk, Mulder. After your little escape run from hospital, you gave me no choice but to come here." 

"Hospital?" 

"Yes. You were in an accident this morning. You were admitted to hospital. I came to find you. I promised to come back later to talk to you because you were out of it. Next thing I knew, you were gone." 

"Why?" I ask coolly. 

"Why what?" 

"Why I was out of there so fast?" 

"I don't know. I guess you were confused." "Don't lie to me," I say sharply, forcing myself to calm down a bit. "There must have been a good reason." 

"You had an accident, Mulder. Why should there have been any reasons for you to be upset, apart from that? I think you're entitled to that, especially with what is going on." 

"How did you find me here?" 

"I guessed you would be in this hotel." 

"No, in this town. This is not Washington." 

"No, it's Red Town." 

"Where is that?" 

"Near Vegas. You flew in two days ago. After all that happened, you couldn't stay in D.C. That was normal of course, considering the circumstances." 

"Am I still an FBI-agent?" 

"Yes, but you're on sick leave." 

"I still have my guns and ID." 

"Only because you took them. Mulder, please sit down and talk to me. I need to explain a few things." 

"Such as?" 

"Why you're suffering from this condition." 

"I know why. I was attacked." 

"Yes, you and Scully were, by Dr. John Marshall." 

"Doctor?" I ask coldly. "He isn't a doctor. He hasn't been for a long time." 

"He was still practising. He misled all of us." 

"He is your friend." 

"I thought that he was, but he lied to everyone. It nearly cost you your life." 

"It did cost Scully's." 

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Mulder. Scully is -" 

"- Dead." 

"No, she -" 

I raise my hands. "Don't say it out loud, Skinner. I don't want to hear it. You don't know what it's like to watch her die." 

"I saw it too, Mulder. I -"   
"What?" I rise up sharply and face him. "You saw it? You weren't there! You came later, in your own car." 

"No, I was there. I saw her slide down the hill. I saw Marshall too." 

"How?" I ask. "How did you get there so quickly?" 

"Marshall said something about his other victims and how they had to fall to meet their Maker. That ledge was the only place in town where he could have taken them. You came to the same conclusion, only you were there earlier than me. When Scully called me to warn me where you were headed, I was already on the way." 

"So you saw. Everything?" I repeat. "Then why the hell weren't you there to save us?" 

"I was too late to stop it. I saw Marshall's wife hit you in the back of the head. I shot her but couldn't help you. Marshall escaped, but not for long." 

"He's dead?" I ask surprised. 

"Yes, he's been dead for a week." 

"How?" 

"We found him. He resisted arrest and died in the process." 

"That can't be. I'm still looking for him," I blurt out. "My notes tell me so." 

"Don't believe your notes, Mulder. You are working with a very confused and distraught perspective right now. You don't know what has happened this past week. That information has been taken from you, but you should know that it can be stopped." 

"Yes," I agree slowly, as I try to gather all the pieces that are building up in the confines of my head. 

Skinner was at the site and yet he did nothing to help me. Should I believe the story about Marshall's wife? Or am I looking into the face of the man that helped Marshall? Skinner had been acting strangely all the time we were in Graystone solving our case. He was upset when I profiled the killer, accusing Marshall of the murders. Skinner could not believe it, yet he knew Marshall had been very ill during their tour of duty. He said it himself: Marshall was not the same man he used to be. Does that not prove, that the bond between the men was much stronger than we had ever expected? 

How can I find out the truth? I have betrayed so much in the past. I cannot follow up on my past friendship with this man when I know that a human mind can easily be altered and persuaded. On the other hand: how can Skinner be blind for Marshall's faults when he sits so high in the FBI's ranks? 

I glare at Skinner who scans the room nervously. He has his hand near his gun and his darting eyes unexpectedly find mine. 

"You don't believe me," he says finally. 

"I don't know what to believe." 

"Mulder, I have to tell you this - it's about Scully. It's the reason why I came to see you. I've told you this before but you've forgotten it because of the illness you're suffering from so gravely." 

"Not a disease, a condition." 

"Whatever. You are very confused right now and need medical attention. I can provide you with a means for that. We can do it." 

I just look at him warily. 

"What are you going to tell me about Scully?" I ask wearily, defeated for a long moment. 

"She's -" 

A loud knock on the door rattles us both. I look at Skinner who glares back at me. I walk past him and open the door to find a gorgeous dark-haired woman looking nervously at me. 

"I came to warn you that your guy is back," she says. "Be careful." 

"Who are you?" I ask.   
She smiles sympathetically. "If I tell you, you will have forgotten anyway. Just watch out." I nod and she closes the door. 

Seconds later, I feel Skinner's very strong-arm and hand around my neck. He forces me into an arm lock, pulling me against his chest. I can hardly breathe let alone struggle to break loose. 

"Easy, Mulder," he says, holding me. "Easy now, and listen to me. You have to, for your own sake." 

My mind goes crazy. I can feel sensations ripple through my consciousness like a pebble impacting touching the ocean surface. Somehow the fog seems to lift a little. It feels like dj-v. I have been here before, struggling with Skinner. 

I don't know the whole truth. 

I go crazy. I have to fight to free myself from him, to struggle hard against the emotions that rush through me; the unbearable panic that almost sends me into oblivion. My entire being aches: my body fights hard to ignore the horrid pain that shoots through me as he holds fast onto me. 

"Okay, okay," I groan and he releases me just a little bit, so I can take deep breaths again. I slump forward, against the bedside and hold onto the mattress. He slumps down alongside me, still grasping onto me. He doesn't want to let go. 

"Easy," he speaks quietly, almost gently, as if he knows what goes I'm going through. 

Something not entirely of my control shoots in action. My senses start up again in self-defence mode. I want to hurt this man. He's the cause of all my misery and pain and I just want to kill him. If Marshall is truly dead, he is the only one remaining I can make suffer for my pain. 

I elbow him in the groin with one smooth motion from my right arm. My elbow connects to his balls, sending him careening backwards. He growls in sheer pain, falling onto his ass and back, lurching over onto his side as he tries to protects his nuts. He moans and keeps on moaning. 

I don't hesitate for a second, I ball my fist and connect it with his face, knocking his glasses off and sending him into the land of oblivion. He stays down for the count, limp hands releasing his grip on his balls. I sigh heavily and breathe deeply; In and out, in and out. I struggle to stay alert, for I too feel as if I have fought off a lion. 

He lies there, and I see his face and it looks distraught, even in his unconsciousness. I grasp the gun, thrusting it into his face, putting the gun butt to his mouth. He doesn't move, and I know in that second that I can't go through with it here and now. I need time to think, to get things straight. What the fuck just happened? Did he really attack me? That bastard! 

I feel sick. Everything that's inside my stomach needs to find a way out. I drop the gun onto the bed, rush into the bathroom and puke my guts out into the toilet bowl. It seems to take forever. I close my eyes and just let it happen. 

Afterwards I sink on the ground and flush the toilet. I need to get up, rinse my mouth, freshen up, and then kill Skinner. 

There's no other way. Yes, I need to kill him. 

But how? How can I do that? 

I sink on the carpet, raising my eyes to Skinner's unconscious form. He groans. Quickly I pull the rope off the curtains and tie his hands up with it, forcing his arms behind his back. He moans but remains out of it. 

Then I lean back and sit like that for some moments, and time passes me by. I have made my decision. 

`He knows,' that Post-It note screams at me. And indeed, he does. My instinct's tell me. 

I get up and ignore the soreness in my legs. I leave Skinner in the room and walk outside, into the fresh air. I have a rental car to pick up, and it will be waiting for me around five p.m. 

I'll use it to take Skinner to the quarry, and there I will destroy him. I leave my room carrying my gun.   
I want to see if there is someone else strolling around these premises. 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

It's like dj-v all over again, Scully. 

I think my weary mind has left some room to recognize or distinguish some thoughts and forms. Sometimes I go places and I think that I've have been there before. It feels like that anyhow. I walked into a bar just now and drank a coffee and this woman looks quite oddly at me and says, "Back already?" And I looked up and asked her why she asked that. 

"You were in here before," she then explained. "Drinking coffee on that exact same spot you're sitting now." And I didn't even notice. The greasy fingertips on the counter could have been mine. The plate still standing there could have been the one I ate from. I like eggs Benedict too, you know. I could have eaten from it. 

She could have spiked my coffee and I still wouldn't remember. Funny, isn't it. Life's little irony. I am being punished for letting you go, Scully. I shouldn't have given up so easily. Your hands slipped out of mine, but I should have grabbed your wrists and pulled you back up, with every once of strength I could muster. 

I think I dream at times. I believe that I can hold onto some of those subconscious visions somehow. They seem as vivid as life itself, and I try to remember if they mean something more than just an imaginary thought. 

In my dreams you are still alive. You crawled up that ledge again, bloody and hurt, and you held me in your arms and told me that you would make it. Everything was going to be all right. In my dreams I am the one dying. I live in a non-existing world where nothing is what it seems, and everything is turned upside down. I become a killer and kill the ones who hurt us in cold blood. Why? Revenge, baby. Pure and simply getting back at someone. Is that not what the law says? If someone does something to you, do something back. 

Oh wait, that's not in the law. 

Whatever. 

I want to get back at someone. 

To do some real damage. At least then, I can go out with a bang. 

Chapter five: You're in hospital, Mulder. Remember? 

White.   
Bright white room with a huge window, which allows the immense warmth of the sun to enter and warm me up. It's cold in this room despite the obvious hot weather out there. I shiver underneath the blanket and sheet that covers my body. I feel sore but alert. My head aches a lot though. 

I have difficulty remembering where I am, or how I got here. The last minutes or days are a total blank to me. I lean back and wonder if that is normal. 

Then my eyes fly open. 

"Scully!" I shout on the top of my lungs, hoping that someone will hear. A nurse rushes inside, as if she was waiting for me to wake up. 

"Mr. Mulder!" she reassures firmly, "take it easy. You're okay." 

"Scully, where is she? Is she dead? Did you find her?" 

She doesn't understand obviously. "Who is Scully?" she asks. "You were in a car accident, Mr. Mulder." 

"Where am I?" 

"In Red Town."   
"Red Town?" 

"Yes, near Las Vegas." 

"How did I get here?" 

"They brought you in this morning. You crashed your car. You've been in and out of it for a while. The doctor thought you had a concussion at first, but it turns out that you didn't. You just got a good bump on your head. Other than that, you suffered from nothing serious. You should be released tomorrow, after observation." 

"How?" I close my eyes and lean back in the pillows, totally confused by this situation. I watched Scully die. I saw it happen. And then that blow to the head; there was more, afterwards but I cannot recall that. There is something wrong with me and it has nothing to do with this accident. I need to find out what it is. 

"What day is it?" I ask as she fluffs my pillows and helps me to drink some water from a chilled pitcher. 

"Sunday." 

"What date, I mean?" 

Her eyes reveal her open curiosity. "June 15." 

June 15. A week after Scully died. What happened to me over these past few days? Have I suffered some sort of amnesia? Did I sleepwalk through life, after her death? She suddenly seems to understand. "You're suffering from a rare form of amnesia," she explains. "You can't remember the short-term past. I thought it wasn't true but you really don't remember waking up here this morning, do you?" 

I shake my head and groan as I shift my body into a better position. Just looking at her busy activities tires me, but I try to focus on what she says anyhow. 

"You had some sort of accident before," she continues. "Dr. Morgan told me about it but I didn't really believe it." 

"Did you think I was faking it?" I ask wearily, pretty sure I probably encountered more people like her during the past week." 

"Yeah," she admits. 

"I'm sure you're not the first one." 

"I'm sure I'm not."   
She nods nervously and suddenly seems eager to leave the room. I watch her go and decide that's she's not the right source to get some information from. I don't know if there is anyone here who can explain all this complexity to me. Perhaps I can explain it to myself. 

I decide to slip out of bed and find my things. If I suffer from this condition, I will probably have left notes for myself to guide me through life. My feet touch the cold tiles, and I scan my body for any damage done. I'm wearing just a hospital gown. A bandage on my forehead reveals an injury there. One of my hands is bandaged too. The IV sticking in my right arm stops me from moving too far. I pull at it until the needle slips from my flesh. It stings a bit and bleeds a little. I shuffle towards the closet, open it and find a bag with clothes in. 

I pull it onto the bed and sit down slowly, looking at the torn and bloody items I was obviously wearing when I got here. I must have been unconscious for a while. I also find a notepad with Post-Its sticking between the pages. The first note seems very much well read and says anterogade amnesia. It's in my handwriting. 

So it's true.   
Damn it.   
I wish it were a dream. 

I groan and look at the other notes. The one stating `Skinner knows' shakes me up. I stare at it for a few seconds. If Skinner knows, he might be in town. What if he walks into that door to get me? What would he do to me? 

I know I would be looking for the truth. I don't have to assume it. I'm the type of man who wouldn't sit around and let the world pass him by, injustices unanswered. Scully died and I'm here searching for her killer. I know that John Marshall came from Red Town. This is his hometown and probably the only lead for me to track him down. I must have been here for a week by now, stuck in some dreaded hotel room while searching through the evidence over and over again. That is what I would do. It might take me years to find him, but I will succeed. That is who I am. It is the last bit of sanity I have left in me. 

I feel like an old man, ready to fight whatever is stopping me. I have to get out of here. I don't feel sick enough to be forced to stay, even though I wobble on my feet. I just have a hunch Skinner might be around. 

I find a bottle of pills in my pocket, read the label and decide to take one. Whatever these things do, they are obviously meant to help me, or I wouldn't have them on me in the first place. I sip a bit of cooled water and then strip as quickly as I can from my gown. I have my boxer shorts still on. Thank god: no delightful Foley catheter sticking out down there. 

I wince as I put on the jeans. Then I realize there's no way I can put on the T-shirt. It's ripped to shreds. They just put it in the bag to keep my clothes together, I gather. I sigh. I can't walk around this place bare-chested, can I? 

I take my stuff with me. There's my wallet. No gun or badge. I must have left that somewhere. One of my notes tells me to go to the Garden Inn Hotel on Oak Tree Avenue, wherever the hell that is. I find two keys without a room number or address on them. There must be some way for me to get there though. 

The nurse told me I had been in an accident. So I must have wrecked my car. That means I need new wheels. What to do? I reach for the phone and dial `0' for operator. 

"AT&T, how may I help you?" 

"Yes," I say, "I'm looking for the number of the - erm - Garden Inn Hotel in Red Town." 

"Hold on, sir." A few seconds later I am put through. 

"Garden Inn Hotel." 

"Yes, this is Fox Mulder speaking. I think I have a hotel room at the Garden Inn and I -" "Oh yes, of course, Mr. Mulder. How are you? We heard about your accident. Horrible, isn't it? Your boss came around earlier to tell us and -" 

"My boss?" I interrupt her. 

"Yes, Mr. Skinner. He was very concerned about you." 

"He didn't take my stuff, did he?" 

"No, he just came by to tell us, and he arranged for your car to be towed back to a garage near the hotel. He said you would probably be back later to collect your things, or he would return." 

"I see." 

"Can I help you, Mr. Mulder?" 

"What is your name?" 

"Janice," she says and now starts to sound impatient. I have asked this before, I'm sure. 

"Janice, could you do me a favour and arrange a rental car for me?" 

"Any preferences, sir?" 

"Not really. Something nice." 

"Sure. Are you coming back here then?" 

"Yes, I'll be there shortly." 

"Okay, see you then." 

"Thanks."  
I hang up and stare down at the phone. So Skinner is here and he knows where I'm staying. Swell. 

I finish putting on my socks and shoes and take a peek outside the room. A nurse crosses the hall and walks into a nurse's station. I slip into the first room to my right, and to my relief find a young man asleep. I am quiet when I open his closet door and fish out the first T-shirt I can find. It's a bit small but fits perfectly. I slip it on. The text:'F%$k my family, I'm moving in with the Osbournes', I'll take as an extra. When I turn, the young guy looks at me. "Room Service," I grin wryly and am out of there before he can muster another word. 

I walk through the door towards the other side and take the stairs instead of the elevator. So far, so good. 

Downstairs I find the ER to my left, and the reception to my right. I go for the reception. There should be taxis waiting there for me to use. If I can get into one, I should be home free. 

But where is home? 

I force myself to take slow steps and proceed cautiously towards the exit. If I act as if nothing is wrong and I am just a visitor, no one will stop me. Walk. Keep walking. 

Outside a taxi stands still in front of the building. It is extremely hot out there. It's too warm for the time of year, even for this place. The heat seems to burn holes in my skin. I shake my head, keep my face down and hurry towards the vehicle. "Garden Inn Hotel," I say. "And hurry up, please." "Sure, buddy." 

The driver obviously is not someone who has ever worked in New York or other big cities. He takes his time even driving off the lot. I slid back in the seat, hoping that no one will come rushing out the hospital looking for me. I imagine that I must look pale and I hate the dreaded bandage on my forehead betraying I have been hurt. 

"Going home?" the driver suddenly asks, getting me out of my stupor. I'm shaken back into reality and look in his eyes using the rear-view mirror. 

"Yeah," I say. 

"You're not from around here, are you? I know a whole bunch of people in this town, buddy, and you sure don't like a Red to me." 

"D.C.," I blurt out, knowing I have already said too much. 

"Ah. What brings you here then?" 

"Friends." 

"But you're staying at that hotel." 

"Never mind," I groan. "Are you always this chatty?" 

"It's my job to be. A cab driver is a friend, a confident and often a shrink, you know." 

"In New York, maybe." 

"Red Wood is not so different. Okay, we don't have Fifth Avenue, but at least we have a nice shopping area. People from all around come here." 

"I'm sure they do," I sigh, turning my head as a token the conversation is finished. He won't listen though. 

"You know, I've heard there's this guy from D.C. in town. They say he lost his memory and is some sort of fruitcake. If you say something to him, an hour or so later he might not even remember it. You won't happen to be him, would you?" I turn my head towards him again. 

"Why?" 

"So, if I charge you fifty bucks for this ride now, and I drive you around until you lose your memory, you wouldn't remember you'd already paid me, would you? Interesting." 

"I could also shoot you and not remember it, and plead insanity," I say coolly. "Not a single soul in this world would convict me. In fact, I would have the law behind me because I'm a Federal Agent." 

He pales. "Hey, I was just kidding, buddy." 

"So was I ... buddy." 

I guess this little titbit is enough to shut him up. I see him glare in the mirror constantly, wondering if I am really flying over the cuckoo's nest. And every time I look at him and nod, as if to confirm that I still remember who he is and what we are doing here. 

I take out the notepad, a Post-Its and scribble on one: Don't pay the taxi driver twice. He's a shit head. I almost laugh. 

I am fairly certain the cab driver takes a long route back to the hotel. He even stops on the way to get some gas. I am getting more nervous by the minute. I imagine Skinner driving right behind us, wanting to stop me. 

Stop me from doing what? 

If he could stop me, he would have done so in the hospital. He would have let them tie me up and treat me like the nutcase I considered myself. Yet here I was, rushing towards freedom. 

Should I really be doing this? Should I run away from him and pretend I can solve the mystery by myself? 

I have to. 

There is no other option. 

There is only escape and oblivion, release and resolution. 

The driver eyes me warily as he fills up his tank. I notice the engine is still running and so is the meter. I smile. Whatever. My wallet is wadded with money, so I've noticed. I can afford his little cheating. 

Something tells me it's not the first time he's done this to tourists and ignorant folks. He walks to the counter inside the gas station. I notice a huge parking lot behind us. He's still inside waving busily with his hands, pointing at me. I can see several people looking in my direction. I turn my head. 

The cab driver steps in again and drives off quietly. We pass a couple of signs that tell me we're nearing the freeway. I don't know where the hotel is and can only hope he's finally going to take me there. 

One sign reads: Hoffman Quarry. 

"What is that?" I ask suddenly, scaring the hell out of the bulky, sweaty-handed driver, despite the air-conditioning that runs like crazy. 

"Hoffman Quarry? Oh, that used to be some gold digger's resort. Used to be a tourist attraction. Now it's abandoned." 

"How do you get there?"   
"Just follow the freeway towards L.A. You'll pass it. It's just off Route 44, Exit 23." I take out the stack of unused Post-It's and scribble the directions on it. Perhaps they'll come in handy some time. 

"If you're going there, take someone with you. The old mine is ready to fall apart. It already killed a couple of kids some time ago, who were having sex there. I guess the climax moved the earth for them it." 

He laughs nastily at his own stupid joke, shutting up again when he notices I'm not smiling. 

We eventually arrive at the hotel and instead of paying him the full amount I toss him a twenty-dollar bill. 

"I'm sure that's a fair price considering you were screwing me," I say. 

"The meter says thirty-five bucks, buddy." 

I lean forward and look inside, noticing some naked pictures of fairly young girls. Ten to one they are not even eighteen yet. He flushes a scarlet red when he says me glare between them, and back to him. 

"The meter says twenty," I repeat. 

He groans, grasps it and clutches it between his sticky fingers. 

"Go to hell, freak," he mutters. 

I tap against my head. "With the way you drive, you'll probably end up there first." He is very pissed off now. I slam the car door and he takes off like a bat out of hell. Dust flying all over the place. 

I feel a slither of laughter surge through me. I grin broadly, turn and head towards the hotel entrance, despite that it doesn't seem familiar whatsoever. However, something tells me I have been staying here for some time now. I set myself to think as my mind pulls up a complete blank, trying to figure out what I was up to, where was I?" 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

I really should be tattooing all those clues on my chest, Scully, just like Leonard did. I would be able to take a look in the mirror, and instantly see what's been done to you, and I. I would follow the leads, wherever they take me. Then again, to remove all my chest hair in order to get a good tattoo done? No, thank you. 

I'll stick with the notes. I'm sure they won't get lost. And if they are, I will start all over again. 

We're a match that's made in heaven, Scully. You're already up there, with your Maker, and I am down here with nothing at all to believe in anymore. I think I'm turning into a full-bore atheist now, even though I assume I used to be agnostic. 

Potatoe-Potatoh. 

Whatever else, we are true to form. You're out there, and I am in here and I have abandoned my beliefs once again, to seek something else more tangible: revenge, closure or peace. 

If you are looking down on me now, are you proud of me or calling me a self-righteous geek? 

Am I crazy to want to do this? 

Is there anything else left in this life with any damned meaning? 

If I die after this ordeal, will I see you again in the next life? Perhaps we are meant to die together, Scully, so we can be transformed into other entities or energies together. After all, we are bound together in life and death. 

If you're up there, and I'm stuck down here, are you laughing your ass off right now? 

Can't you give me any clues as to where I'm going? 

Anything, Scully, c'mon. Something would do. Just help me out here, will you? Just tell me that I am following the right lead. 

It can't be that hard. 

Part two 

Chapter six: "Mulder, you have to listen to me. Not everything is at it seems!" 

Dreams of Scully.   
Visions of her sitting by my side in the hospital, when I was shot for the first time in my life. `Through and through upper femur', I can hear them say and she stands there unable and too shocked to say anything. She closes her eyes, upset and visibly shaken. I can still feel the wound where I was hit. 

Images of Scully as we are trapped in the woods as darkness falls. She is as horrified, as am I. We fight against something we don't understand; and I feel life literally being sucked out of me. 

Scully watching me when I tango with death, after the alien bounty hunter attacked me on the sub in the Arctic. She is sitting next to me, holding my hand and praying. I can hear her prayers. Her words are silent, yet I hear every word of them. And when I wake up, she shows me this amazingly dazzling smile. 

Watching me, and talking to me as our old bodies betray us, and we're sinking into death, literally. 

Scully shooting me, stopping me from killing Krycek. Saving me from my own insanity. By my side always, as I am hurt in my endeavours to seek the horrible truth about my sister. Being with me as I see my father and Deep Throat. Knowing somehow that I am not dead, but ready to return to her. 

Visions of me watching Scully die as she struggled to fight the illness, that ate her from within..... An image of me contemplating suicide. 

Scully watching me as the voices inside my head drive me crazy, almost into oblivion, searching for peace and quiet inside my skull. 

Helping me when my sister was found, believing in the truth that became so clear to me after it was found. 

Saving me when snakes bit me over and over again. When those bugs entered my lungs and sucked and choked me almost to death. 

She has always been there for me. Every single time. She fought for me, as I have fought for her. 

And now she's not here. 

That's the first impression I get when I am wheeled into an emergency room. People are all around me. They touch me, scan me and examine me. My eyelids are lifted and a little light shines straight into my pupils. I react to it. 

"He's coming to," a female voice says. 

"What's his name?" 

"Fox Mulder." 

"Mr. Mulder, I'm doctor Mathis. Can you hear me?" I have difficulty saying anything. My head is so heavy and my throat so thick, that I just want to sink back into oblivion and let them decide for me what should be done next. I just want to get some peace. 

"Mr. Mulder, open your eyes. Come on. You can do it." I don't want to. 

"Mr. Mulder?"   
I groan slightly and blink, and squint at them. There are at least four people in the small E.R. examination room. They lift me off the gurney onto a more comfortable bed. Nurses are busy stripping me of my pants. Hey, go easy on them. They leave my boxers on. 

"A Foley?" someone asks. 

"No," the doctor reacts before I can. "He's already coming to. The damage seems to be kept to a minimum." The light still shines in my eyes, but the doctor is slowly withdrawing her hand. "Mr. Mulder, any idea where you are?" 

"No." 

I have difficulty recalling anything really. I remember something: a ledge, a fight, Scully falling, holding onto my hands, crying out for me. 

"Scully?" 

"What, Mr. Mulder?" 

"Scully - where is Scully?" My voice becomes panicky. I struggle to get away from them. Why are they holding me? I don't want to stay here. I need to find her, and the man that did this to her. 

"Mr. Mulder, easy!" 

"Is she dead?" I ask disturbed. "Is she gone?" 

"Who is Scully, sir?" 

"My partner. She was there. She fell. You have to find her, she might still be alive!" 

"You were alone, sir. Did she have an accident too?" 

"Off the ledge," I say heavily, dizzying from the effort. Strong hands still hold me down. "She fell ... off the ledge." 

"You were in a car accident, sir, right here in Red Town. Remember?" I stare at the doctor. "Red Town?" 

"Yes." 

Something tells me I'm in trouble. I can feel it, but I cannot react. I'm too tired. I just want to sleep. 

Please, someone let me sleep. Let me forget. 

Somehow, Dr. Mathis seems to understand. She takes my hand in hers and strokes my face. She's gentle. I wish I could crawl inside her mind and see what she is thinking. She's beautiful. She reminds me of Scully. 

Scully. 

I feel a knot in my stomach and my throat feels glued up. Oh please, don't let all of this be true. Let it be a dream. I have to remember something! 

"We'll take care of you, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Mathis says. "I promise." I feel sick. "Breathe in and out. You can do it." 

With that, I close my eyes, allowing my mind to sink back into oblivion for the time being. I need the rest, obviously. Before I sleep, I wonder how long it's been since I had any proper sleep. It feels like forever. 

Even though I think I have slept for hours in a row - or at least it feels that way - I've only been out of it for a mere few minutes. I'm still in the same E.R. and they are still working on stabilising my vitals. I'm shirtless and strapped to various machines. My head still throbs. I've got an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. 

"Welcome back, Mr. Mulder." Dr. Mathis is still here. She hovers over me and is washing the wound on my face. It stings. One of the nurses has left, but the others remained. I guess they don't have much to do here. She removes the mask and find I can breathe easier than before. 

"How are you feeling?" she asks. 

"Better," I say hoarsely. "Am I going to live?" 

She smiles. "Of course." 

"Good. I'd hate to miss Oprah." 

"I promise you you'll be home safe and sound before that. By the looks of it, you'll be out of here in a few days." 

"That long?" 

"I'm afraid so. We have to make sure your loss of consciousness is linked to your accident, and not due to a possible concussion. We took some X-Rays and would like to do a scan later to be on the safe side. Is there anyone I can contact for you?" I think that over. The only one I can think of is Skinner, but he's not in town. I'm alone here. I know painfully well that Scully is gone. 

"No," I finally say. 

"No relatives?" 

"They're gone." 

"You're an FBI-agent, aren't you? I think we should call your head office." 

"No," I say hastily. "I'm on vacation. I don't want to disturb them." 

"Oh. Okay." 

I can tell one of the nurses is going through my personal items. I have a needle sticking in my vein in one arm and see an IV-bag drip emptying into it. My breathing is more relaxed now, but my brain tries to figure out what's going on. I need to know why I have difficulty remembering anything, and why it feels like such a long time ago since I last saw Scully, while my brain tells me that I should have seen her yesterday. 

I see the doctor and nurse discuss something. They glare at me. Another nurse continues preparing the wound on my forehead for stitching. I look at her hands and wish I were out of it again, so I wouldn't be a witness to the damage-repair, which I hate. 

Dr. Mathis returns to my bedside. "Sir, do you know what anterogade amnesia is?" I don't have to think about that one. "Yeah," I say. "I do." 

"Is this your handwriting?" She shows me a note. 

"Yeah," I confirm.   
They look at each other momentarily and it suddenly all fits together. I finally acknowledge the details that force me to sink back into a grey, gruesome reality. 

"What day is it?" I hear myself ask wearily. 

"June 15, 2003." 

I hold my breath. Scully died a week ago, suddenly aware that I don't recall anything since. I don't even recall getting up this morning and having breakfast. I might have done anything. I might have killed someone, or had the best sex ever. Or watched the best porn DVD. Or gone into some bar and danced naked on the tables. Get blasted and forget my sorrows. 

Anything. 

"I think I have it," I say slowly, looking at the doctor as tears suddenly spring up in my eyes. I'm angry at myself for feeling so damned weak and vulnerable. I must be stronger than this. I can't imagine having done nothing over the past week. I know that Dr. Marshall came from this town. I remember that from his file. I probably have it somewhere near me. I should be looking for him. 

I rise up and try to shrug off the nurse's hands. "I have to go." An intense urgency builds up in me, warning me not everything is, as it seems. I have this sensation within me, telling me I'm on the run for someone, or something. I should not be here. This is not where I was headed. 

"Forget it," Dr. Mathis says firmly. "You're not going anywhere. You need to be checked out thoroughly. You seem very tired, Mr. Mulder. Have you slept properly lately?" 

"I don't remember," I reply wryly. 

"Oh, I'm sorry." She looks at me intrigued, fascinated by my replies, not doubting me for one second. I see more in her eyes: an interest that tells me I'm more than just another patient to her. Or perhaps she's just this caring for everyone. 

"I've never had anyone in here with this type of amnesia before. Would you mind terribly if we did some tests? Just to be on the safe side, and to make doubly sure that there isn't another reason for your memory loss." 

"I remember everything up until a week ago," I respond tiredly. "I don't recall what I did an hour ago, let alone yesterday. I received a heavy blow to the head. I wrote that note myself. Does that tell you enough?" 

"You're from D.C.," she says. "Let me check it out for you. I'm sure there is a medical file on your condition that might be of use to us. Have you talked to a psychologist about this?" 

"I don't remember." 

She smiles reassuringly. "Do you have anything else on you that might help us?" I point slowly at my belongings. "That is all I had with me. I don't even know what's in that bag." 

I see that the other people in the room are becoming fascinated by my replies. They must believe me, I gather from their openly curious glares. Dr. Mathis nods. "Let me discuss this with a colleague, Dr. Morgan. He is our neurologist. I'll bring him up to speed." 

"Sure." 

"Just relax, Mr. Mulder. We will take care of you." I have no other choice, do I? I close my eyes as they work on my forehead, stitching up the deep gash. I ignore the horrible headache that is becoming a throbbing reminder of my current situation. I need shelter. 

I wait patiently while Dr. Mathis stitches up my forehead. She's eager to talk to me, to get a grip on the situation. 

"Are you certain I can't call anyone for you?" she asks. 

"From the looks of it, I'm an unemployed agent," I reply dryly. "I cannot imagine they would keep someone with my memory disability in their service." 

"You might be on sick leave. Besides, a condition like this can be overcome, Mr. Mulder. Surely there are ways to aid you." 

"How?" I ask as our eyes meet. "What I do know of this type of amnesia is that it's for life. It is irreversible." 

She looks into my eyes sympathetically. Her voice sounds sensual when she speaks again. 

"I wish I could make you remember me then. It will be a shame to see you again, while you won't even know who I am." 

"The story of my life," I quip. "Or so I think." It feels good to touch another human being, even though she's doing all the touching. I am fairly certain that I am very lonely at this moment, and need a bit of shelter and security. 

Her hand strokes my face gently. Strange emotions within me warn me not to go any further. I cannot do this, not now. I close my eyes and wait until she is finished. She seems disappointed and finishes up quickly. 

"Voil," she says. "We'll move you to a private room shortly." 

"Thank you. For everything." 

She seems surprised that I would say that. She nods, understanding that I'm grateful she believed me. Funny isn't it, how you can sense certain things? I'm fairly certain I've had to struggle to make other people believe in my condition. It's just a hunch I have. Or maybe it's because I know what it's like not to be believed. 

I wake up confused and glance around in the room. I am not in the E.R. anymore but in a private room. Strange, have I slept? I recall what happened. I woke up and Dr. Mathis told me I was suffering from memory loss. Anterogade amnesia. Ah yes, the condition that renders you oblivious to the obvious. 

A shadow inside the room startles me. I turn my head too fast and groan, experiencing a sharp twist of pain. 

"Easy does it, Mulder," a voice that I know very well, says. It's Walter S. Skinner, my boss and friend. I look at him. He smiles nervously as he approaches the bed. 

"What are you doing here?" I ask confused. 

"I'm staying here in town," he explains, "but I'm not certain if you recall our previous meeting. I'm in the same hotel you're in. I arrived last night, looking for you." 

"Why?" 

"Because I want to take you back home, Mulder." 

"Home?" I ask. "Why?" 

"You're very sick and you don't even know it." 

"Yes, I do. I have this condition called -" 

"Anterogade amnesia. I know. I know the details of it. But what I don't understand, is how you got it." 

"I received a blow to the head. It's the last thing I recall." 

"Is it really?" 

"Yeah, of course. I'm not making this up, sir." 

"I know you aren't. But you don't know the full story. It's not the blow to the head that caused this, Mulder. It's something else." I open my mouth to protest. "Mulder, hear me out." Skinner shoves a chair nearer my bed. I'm dressed in a hospital gown that probably shows off my naked ass when I move. Oh wait, I still have my boxers on. 

"What?" I ask tiredly. 

"You've been on the road for nearly a week. I've been chasing you ever since, following you to your apartment, through D.C., to Vegas and finally here. I took a week off for this, because I didn't want anyone to know you were in such deep trouble." 

I stare at him fascinated now. "What do you mean by that? Surely they know that I have this condition." "No, only the doctors do. I have protected you from the bureau since - since the blow to you head. Mulder, I have tried to tell you this over and over again. This thing - what you have - is not what it seems. It's different. I know you remember Scully falling; but that's not the end of the story, is it? You've been searching for the truth by yourself, while all this time it was not what it seems. I just want you to know everything, even though I'm not sure you're capable, and able in your current condition to accept that. It's a risk I have to take, before I persuade you to come back to D.C. with me where you can receive proper treatment." 

"Lock me up in the crazy bin, you mean?" I react bitterly. "What else is there left for people like me?" 

"No," he speaks tiredly, rubbing his face. "That's what I have told you three times now, and every time something comes in between us, preventing me from taking you home. However I do need to take you home, Mulder, so you can see it for yourself. It's the only way you will ever believe me." 

"What is it then that you want to tell me, or show me?" 

Skinner shoves his chair backwards and walks to the closet where my clothes lay. "I want to show you, and we don't have much time. You need to trust me." 

"I won't be able to trust you when I lose my memory again," I say. "How can you expect me to stay with you then?" 

"If needs be, I'll cuff you to me so you can't walk out. I'll do anything it takes to help you." 

"You can help me find Marshall." 

He looks at me seriously. "Mulder, Dr. Marshall is dead. He has been for nearly a week." 

"He's not!" I say angrily. "He can't be. I'm here because of him." 

"Mulder, not everything is as you believe. You have to trust me." 

"Why should I? You sent us out there in the first place. You misjudged your friend. You allowed us to walk into the lion's den." 

"And I've hated myself for it every day since. That doesn't change reality." 

"Reality is that our lives are over, sir." 

"No, they're not. You have everything left to look forward to." 

"You don't know what it's like!" I explode, interrupting him. "I expect to Scully walk through that door at any minute. I experience her death as if it happened yesterday. I will never forget it. It will forever be there." 

"Let me -" 

"No, you can't do anything for me. Why should I put my life into your hands?" 

"I am your friend." 

"You're nothing to me," I reply bitterly. "Nothing!" 

"Mulder -" 

The door abruptly flings open, startling the both of us. Dr. Mathis approaches the bed, smiling as she pats my hand. "Agent Mulder," she says and then nods towards Skinner. "I see you have company. I was wondering if I can talk to you alone for a moment. My colleague is very interested in your condition, and offered to take some special X-Rays of your head to see if the trauma is truly irreversible." 

I glare at Skinner. He is clearly frustrated. "I need to -" 

"Later," I say coolly, having made my decision not to respond to his persuasions. 

"Sure," he finally agrees reluctantly. There's a strange hurt look in his eyes. He doesn't understand it, does he? He has no idea why I don't let him help me. I can't trust him when I can't even trust myself. This fear that lives and breathes within me is stronger than anything I've ever experienced. 

I don't say another word and wait until he reluctantly leaves the room. "I'll come back later," he says. "I'll call your hotel and let them know." 

As soon as he walks out, I turn to the doctor and say, "I'm very tired. Would you mind doing those tests later? I have a splitting headache." 

"Of course," she says. "I'll arrange for your consent papers. I'll get you down to X-Ray and for a CT-scan later." 

"Thanks." 

She smiles. "Anything I can do, just ask." 

"Thank you, I appreciate that." 

She nods and leaves me alone. 

I know I should just get up, fetch my clothes and get the hell out of here, but I'm tired. Make that exhausted. I have to take a little nap first.., and then I'll be gone. Just a little nap ... 

Intermezzo   
June 15 

Scully, with you is where I've got to be. There's no other place in this world for me. I wish I could turn back time, and make you complete again, alive and well. I wish we'd never listened to Skinner's request to investigate that damned case. I pray every single moment now that we never met Dr. Marshall. 

It is wishing for hope that will never be fulfilled. You are everything to me, and I am nothing to you anymore. You don't get to turn back time, Scully. That does not happen. No matter how many things we've seen together, the hope relinquishes with every thought. 

I wish I were dead. 

Chapter seven: "You fucked my wife once. Don't think you'll be fucking her again!" 

He's here. I can feel it in my bones. I might not remember where I'm heading but I can sense he's near. His presence is so obvious it makes me want to flee right now. I don't know why. 

"Are you okay?" she asks. 

I turn my head and stare at the dark-haired woman who smiles nervously at me. I am sitting at a bar sipping a cup of coffee. She's poured it for me, obviously, because she's still holding the jar. 

I blink my eyelids and am in awe at her beauty. She is tall, slim and doesn't fit the bill of most of the waitresses I know. She looks like an actress who's pouring coffee and serving dinner to pay the bills, while she waits for her big break-through. Only, when I glare outside the window, I see nothing but dusty roads of a small town that doesn't resemble L.A. or New York whatsoever. She stands out here. 

"Yeah," I say slowly, noticing she is still waiting for a response. "I'm okay." 

"Can I get you anything else?" 

I think about that question. Then I smile. "I know this might sound like a weird question to you, but have I eaten anything yet?" 

She leans forward, glaring curious at me. Then she smiles. "Why do you ask?" 

"I'm just wondering." 

She hesitates and then says, "No, you haven't." 

"Can you get me something nice then?" 

"Steak and fries?" 

"Sure." 

She turns and I hear laughter as she walks into the back. I pat my stomach and glare at the plate standing on the counter not so far from me. I did already eat something. I shift off my chair and throw a ten-dollar bill on the counter. That should do for whatever I consumed here, I suppose. If not, I'm sure they'll find me. 

I walk outside and find my sunglasses in my leather jacket. It feels too hot for this time of year, and even in a place like this but I keep it on anyhow. I put on the glasses and stand still. Plenty of cars on the lot. Since I don't have a vehicle of my own, I'm likely to be driving a rental. But which one? 

I glare at the keys I have. Remote control. I push the button and a beige Mondeo standing at the far right flickers. I get inside, turn on the engine and wait while the air-conditioning sets in. It blows hot wind at first, and then starts cooling off quickly. I remain seated and flick through the papers and notes I have on me. Reality settles in quickly. 

I have a note that informs me, that I should meet with a woman called Janine Rhodes who lives on 44 Canal Street. Odd name for a street in a town like this. I have a map of the Red town with me. I'm currently at the border of town, not so far from the suburb where Miss or Mrs. Rhodes lives. A note scribbled in someone else's handwriting says: "Meet me at my home, 10.30 a.m. I have news." 

It's noon. I'm too late. Perhaps I've already been there, but I find no notes about it. Perhaps I should just drive there and ask her what's going on and why I was supposed to meet her. 

Slowly I drive through the streets until I find the right lane, pulling up and stopping before a beautiful house, standing in a row with other equally gorgeous buildings. Money-people, I think. 

I get out and walk the short driveway. I ring the doorbell three times. After a while, a Mexican housekeeper answers the door. 

"Seor," she says confused, "back again?" She speaks with a heavy accent. I hesitate, responding to my gut feeling that tells I've made a mistake. 

"Mrs. Rhodes?" I ask. 

The housekeeper shakes her head. "No, no, Seor, go now." She wants to close the door but is too late. A bulky man who's at least 6 foot 2, comes into the hallway and glares at me angrily. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he barks, "haven't you learned your lesson by now?" 

"I'm sorry," I say, "I'm looking for -" 

"What, was one fuck not good enough for you? What the hell do you want from her now? I swore I would kill you, didn't I? You wouldn't listen, huh?" 

"Wait," I say, stepping backwards as I raise my hands. I realize quickly that I don't have my gun on me. I must have left it in that hotel I'm staying at. "This is a mix-up. I can't even remember coming here earlier. I have a rare condition that -" 

"Bullshit," the bulky man spits. "You fucked my wife this morning. Now I'm going to fuck around with you." 

Before I can do anything else, he grabs me and pushes me so hard that I fall. My legs and feet lose their ground, and I feel my body falling backwards, onto the ground. I hit it hard. He's on top of me, startling me, strangling me, and much stronger than I am. Now his beefy hands are around my throat. I know he means serious business. Fuck, I can't breathe! 

My survival mode kicks in, and so does my foot. I kick out my leg hard and hit him in the balls with my knee. He groans, winces, cries out, and then releases me long enough for me to get a grip on the situation. I shove him backwards, but he comes right back at me, his hands swaying in the air for something to seize onto. 

He gets a hold on me again and we struggle on the driveway. I know I'll never win against a man his size in a fight. Desperation settles in. 

In the door a woman appears. She's sporting a black eye and plenty of bruises. "Mike, let go of him!" she screeches, "he didn't do anything!" 

Her cry startles her husband long enough for me to push him off me. I've no other choice but to get the hell out of there... fast. Without my weapon I'm helpless against 220 pounds of sturdy weight. 

"Get back inside!" Mike yells towards the mysterious Janine, whom I supposedly slept with. Too bad I can't remember if it's true. She's a beauty. Then I think of Scully and feel guilty at once for thinking that way. Not that Scully and I ever did the wild thing - but how can I think about sex, when I am revenging her death? 

I rush towards the rental car and come to realize a few things instantly. 

One: I have been here before and obviously did something with that woman. Two: her husband didn't like it all and is pissed. Three: I should never come here again. 

Jot that down in your book, Mulder. Or better yet, rip the notes apart. I grasp the woman's message and tear up the note, and then throw the pieces out of the window as I tear off out of the road. I hear a howl coming from Mike who's being hit on the back by his wife's small fists. She obviously is not angry at me, but I feel fear grasp me by the throat. Did I really have sex with that woman? Or have I done anything to make her fall in love with me? 

Please, no. 

I glare in the mirror, hoping the husband is having to run after me like some Olympic athlete and is out of breath. Then I suddenly take the curve too fast. The next moment, it seems as if the car embraces the pole, that seems to come out of nowhere, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's as if the vehicle has a mind of its own and I just allow my body to go with the impact, lurching forward against the steering wheel that impacts my forehead, not to mention the airbag that exploded in my chest. I hear glass shatter and it's everywhere, hurting me; but as soon as my face collides with the wheel, I am out of there, and into a world where everyone is on his own. 

"Did you see that?" 

"Yeah, what a smack." 

"He's dead, surely." 

"No, he's not. He's moving." 

"How can he be alive? He wasn't wearing a seatbelt." A good guardian angel, I think." 

"Poor guy." 

"I called an ambulance, they'll be here soon." 

"Shouldn't we get him out?" 

"No, leave him. He might have broken something." 

"He's moving. He's coming out of it." 

"No, he's still unconscious." 

"No, look! He's stirring." 

I groan, annoyed by the voices I am aware of outside of the car. I can hear everything they say despite the closed windows. The engine is off. Someone get a hammer and finish the job. My head is exploding. It can't be difficult too kill me now, can it? 

"Sir, are you okay?" A tap on the window. The door opens. My face is directed towards the door, but I can't seem to open my eyes. They're glued shut tight. 

" I bet he has brain damage," the same obnoxious nasal female voice says. "Serves him right for going off like that." 

"Don't say that," the man growls. 

I finally manage to open my eyes; taking in the combination of blues, greens, yellows, blacks and whites that seem to form figures at long last. It takes a while for me to be able to make them out as humans. 

The woman turns out to be a short, scruffy creature, that doesn't seem to belong in this area at all. She looks like a housekeeper and probably is one, seeing as she's wearing the same kind of white shirt, menial staff usually wears. I know where I am, I recall taking off to escape Mad Mike, taking the curve and then losing control over the car; then I crashed into the telephone pole that seem to loom out of nowhere. Lovely. 

"Can you talk?" the man continues. He looks a lot gentler and friendlier. "What's your name?" 

I lift my head upwards a bit and regret it instantly. The man's voice shoots through me like thousands of knifes cutting through flesh. I groan deeply. 

"Stay put," he tells me. "You shouldn't be moving." I listen to what he says because it makes sense, and lower my head back down against the steering wheel. Yep, that feels a whole lot better. I just relax and wait until someone comes to help me. 

The help turns out to be both ambulance and cops. The paramedics seem pleased that I'm alert enough to tell them where it hurts. 

And boy, does it hurt. 

My arms, legs, head, chest and face - everything seems to have impacted with the car's mechanical body. 

"Any neck pains?" the paramedic in charge asks. 

"No," I say. 

He seems content again. 

"I don't think the damage is too bad," he explains after palpating my abdomen. I don't wince when he goes to my belly area, scanning it with his expertise hands. My legs aren't broken either, neither are my arms, hands or feet. I'm doing all right, considering. 

"Can't you just help me out?" I groan, not wanting to go to any damn hospital. 

"No, we need to check you out thoroughly to see if you're suffering from a concussion, or other head trauma. You're alert, but sometimes the aftermath appears when you least expect it. We need to make sure." 

"Okay."   
They put a brace around my neck, and start lifting me carefully out of the car. Now I feel the pain's full impact. I groan and moan when I'm moved onto a gurney. To my right, I see plenty of onlookers standing and staring. Amongst them is the woman, Janine. She seems upset. I want to talk to her about this, but she turns and rushes off. 

I know that something is wrong with my memory, and I wonder if she will ever appear in my life again. I don't think so. 

I close my eyes when I'm strapped onto the gurney and moved inside the ambulance. 

"What's your name, sir?" the paramedic asks as he jots down notes. 

"Mulder." 

"That's a funny name." 

"How about Fox Mulder?" 

He grins painfully. "Okay, Mulder it is. You're not from around here, are you?" 

"D.C." 

"Can I take a look at your wallet?" 

"FBI," I groan as we start moving, and I am slightly shaken on the gurney. 

He startles. "So, we should contact your bosses then." 

"No, vacation." 

"Oh, okay. Anyone we can contact?" 

"No," I say. 

He dabs my forehead with a cloth. It stings. 

"Sorry, you have a huge gash there. I have to stop the bleeding." I don't say another word and experience the ride to hospital in silence, eventually passing out. It's better than staying awake, while I am being shaken back and forth inside the belly of the relatively old vehicle. 

I close my eyes pretending it's Scully sitting next to me. What I wouldn't give to feel her hand in mine right now; to hear her soothing voice telling me I am going to be all right. Hospital's a bitch, but bearable as long as she is there. 

I can just hear her voice as she says, "Mulder, what have you gotten yourself into now? Here you are, lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance taking you to a hospital in a strange town, because you ran away from some guy you don't even know. Explain this to me, if you will." 

Then I would go, "Scully, sometimes the truth lies in smaller things. I couldn't let this clue slip away from me, could I? What would you have done?" "Me?" she would respond. "I'd have found myself a great little spot in Florida to return to for the rest of my life. I would forget about the FBI, and just experience the little beauties of life over and over again. I would never get bored, because I would not remember what I did a few hours earlier anyhow." 

I smile. I think she actually would see the humour in the situation, but I can't. 

With that thought, I drift off to sleep. 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

These are the advantages about losing your short-term memory, Scully: 

You get to see a drag of a movie and forget all the details, so it doesn't wrong in your stomach afterwards. 

You can go to a pub and drink, then go to another pub and drink again, and to another pub and yet drink again. 

You can have sex with the ugliest woman in the world and forget about it. 

You can have a lousy dinner, and not remember it. 

You will stay young forever. 

You get to enjoy the same beauty over and over again, and never get bored. 

With that in mind, I should probably be very content at my lack of recollection. What do you think, Scully? Am I going slowly insane, or becoming very realistic? 

Chapter eight: "I want to help you. I like you. I like you a lot." 

I am leaving some hotel, walking towards a car that's unlocked. I hold the keys. I blink my eyelids. A note in my hand: Anterogade amnesia. Reality strikes. Thoughts settle in. Acceptance washes over me. 

Strange that this memory-loss thing just sets in when I'm walking. Where am I going? A woman approaches my car. She's stunning, wearing a beautiful white dress that clings to her every curve. She obviously has money; she has diamonds that are worth more than my apartment on her neck, ears and hands. 

I expect her to walk past, but she stops me. "Mr. Mulder," she says anxiously, grasping my arm. "I'm glad you're here." 

I stare at her shocked. "Who are you?" 

"Janine Rhodes. We met last night, remember?" 

"No, I don't." I recall having her name on a note, including her address and telephone number. She must have given that to me last night too. I think I have a photo of her somewhere too. Her face looks vaguely familiar. 

It's her turn to stare now. "So it's true what you said about your condition?" 

"What did I tell you?" 

"You talked about some sort of wacky amnesia thing. I forgot what you called it." 

"Good enough," I say, raising my hand to stop her avalanche of words. "What do you want?" 

"I came to tell you about Marshall." 

She has my attention. "Marshall?" 

"Yeah, my former colleague. You came to me to talk about him, remember? You were asking where he was, and when I last saw him. What I knew about him." 

"When did I approach you?" 

"Yesterday. I called you earlier this morning, but you didn't answer the phone. I thought I'd come over to see you. Look, why don't we go to my place to talk?" She glanced around anxiously. "I don't want people to know I gossip about Marshall." 

"Are they afraid of him?" 

She laughs. "Goodness, no. Marshall wouldn't hurt a fly." 

"He killed my partner." 

"So you said yesterday, but I still don't believe it." 

"I was there. I saw it. It is the last thing I remember." 

She startles by my harsh voice. I am not in the mood to argue with a woman about her vision or mine. I know what I saw and I know how to deal with it. She doesn't. "Like I said," she speaks nervously, "I don't want to discuss it here. Please, follow me to my house." "Sure." 

She drives a TT. I love those cars. The hood is down and the heat wave must be blowing hot air into her face, yet she remains cool and calm as she swerves around the roads. I have difficulty following her in my rental Mondeo. She doesn't pay attention to me either, expecting me to keep up. 

We drive into a wealthy neighbourhood, sporting mansions that could shelter ten `Kelly families'. Her house is one of the most exclusive ones. Spanish style with round windows, white walls and an orange roof. It could have been standing in Palm Springs. Yet it stood in this little town that meant absolutely nothing, in the middle of nowhere. 

Welcome to Red Town, the sign had said, yet I already knew where I was, thanks to her request that I came to talk to her about her former colleague. Her name does not ring a bell though. I hope she'll tell me more. 

I park my car on the driveway in front of the huge door. A Mexican housekeeper opens it. 

"Seor, she greets me and nods slowly. 

"Ice Tea, Maria," Janine Rhodes demands in an air of unfriendliness, and saunters towards a large, cooled conservatory in the back, which holds a few wooden benches and lots of plants. Wealth speaks again. I can't help but be in awe. 

She doesn't ask me what I prefer to drink. Ice Tea is served accompanied with caviar and olives. Strange combination. She carefully spoons two scoops of caviar, before taking three olives and eating them slowly. We sit together in silence for a long time. 

"What do you have to tell me?" I ask coolly. 

"I can tell you that Marshall hasn't been in town for over a month. They say he's dead." 

"Who says that?" 

"A few friends of his I know, who saw him last week. He was involved in a few killings, they said, or so the Feds claimed. They say he panicked and attacked some FBI-agents." 

"That's true." 

"They said he didn't kill them." 

"They were wrong." 

I look at her. "You were involved with him, weren't you? You were his lover." 

She startles, glaring at me with the defeated guilty look of a woman caught. Then she simply nods. "Yes, I was." 

"Is that why I came to you yesterday?" 

"You found me by accident. You came to the hospital where he used to work and we talked. I admitted to you that Marshall and I were very good friends. Is it that obvious?" 

"You defend him?" 

"I know him. Or I knew him. My husband of course does not suspect." 

"Is he the only one?" 

She flushes a scarlet read. "Is that any of your business?" 

" No, It's not. Are you the reason why he left Red Town? The women he killed resembled you." 

"I don't know." Her voice quivers. "Are you saying he wanted to kill me?" 

"Perhaps." 

"He said he loved me but, I didn't love him back. How could I when I am married to Mike? He is such a great husband, even though he loses his patience now and then." 

"So you had an affaire with John Marshall," I say slowly. "And he left town. So why should I believe you're not hiding him now?" 

" Because I'm not," she snaps harshly. "I swear." 

"I wish I could believe you," I say. "But I can't." 

"You have to. It's the truth! I wouldn't lie to you about it." "Were you his conspirator?" 

"No!" Her protests persuaded me. "I didn't even know where he was! I only heard from his friends about what he supposedly did. It wasn't even in the newspapers, or on TV." 

"I can't confirm that," I retort, "since I don't remember reading anything." 

She turns pale. "Look, yesterday I promised you I'd do my best to find out if he were back in town. He isn't. You must have examined his house and medical practice. He is dead. I can feel it to the bone. Actually, I think that you killed him." 

"No," I say, "I hope and pray that a part of me would allow me to remember that." 

"Your memory won't be selective." 

I nod my head. "I'm afraid of that too." 

She seems to feel sorry for me. She comes closer and puts her hand on my shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," she says, digging her fingernails in my flesh. 

"About what?" 

"Your loss. Your memories. You seem very lonely." 

"Not lonely enough to be desperate," I throw back coldly. 

She winces. "Touch, Agent Mulder." 

I stand up. "I have to go. You're obviously of no help to me." 

"I can be." 

"How?" 

"I can check further. Give me a few more days." 

"Perhaps I don't have those days." 

She startles. "What do you mean?" 

"I might disappear, like Marshall." 

"That would be a shame of such a gorgeous man." 

I smile. "Your compliments don't change my opinion of you. Someone who sleeps with a murderer like Marshall is not entitled to my support or concern." 

"I didn't know he killed anyone." 

"You should have sensed it." 

"You said yesterday that you're involved in serial killer cases. Do you think everyone should know in advance they would murder one day? In that case we would all be psychic." 

"Perhaps that's what I expect." 

I turn my back to her. Her hands stop me. 

"Please," she says, "I need to discuss this with you. Do you think Marshall suffered when he died?" 

"I hope he did," I reply bitterly. "He deserved it." 

"How can you say that?" 

"How can I not?" 

"You don't sound like a law-enforcement officer. You should not be so biased." 

"I am biased," I admitted, "and with good reason." 

"Please, sit down again." 

I didn't want to, but this woman fascinated me. She had that vulnerable streak about her of a widow, just losing her husband. She needed help, perhaps as much as I did, but how could I trust her, when she might know what truly happened to the man whom she claimed she only liked, not loved? She had to love him, seeing that spark in her eyes that betrayed one's affection. 

"I wish you would have known John before all of this," she spoke quietly, sipping her tea with the fast-melting ice cubes in it. "He was such a nice man." 

"I bet he was," I sneer. 

"It's true. He only changed because his bitchy ex would not let him go easily. She sucked him dry: took his money, his car, his house and most of his friends. He had to start from scratch. That's when we became involved. He needed me." 

"That didn't do him much good, did it?" I can't help myself from treating this woman so angrily. I hold her partially responsible for my pain. She is the catalyst for Marshall's conflicts, the reason why he went berserk and killed four women. I will always regret the day I became the profiler on this case. 

"I had no choice but to break it off!" she nearly cries out. "Don't you see?" 

"I see that your husband pays for this lovely house and you didn't want to leave everything behind you." She nods quietly. "If you think your charms will work on anyone, you're mistaken." 

"I'm lonely, Agent Mulder," she whispers. Once again she moves nearer and her hands start caressing my chest. "Don't you see how hurt I am?" 

I grasp her hand, pulling it away from me. She winces. "Leave it alone." 

"I need someone to help me." 

"Go to a shrink." 

"Please!" 

"Go to hell." 

I push her away, get up and force myself to stay calm. I'm not going to be lured into her trap. Not when my body fights to resist the natural urges of being in the presence of a beautiful woman. My partner is dead, for god's sake! 

She clings onto me and I see tears in her eyes. 

"Leave me alone," I grunt, getting up from the wooden bench. I turn my back and walk away from her, heading towards the front entrance of the house. She rushes after me. "Don't leave me alone! Mike is suspecting something. He thinks I'm fucking around." 

"Well he's right, isn't he?" 

"There hasn't been anyone since Marshall, but I need a man, Agent Mulder. Someone who understands me." 

I turn around coldly. "If you're right about me, I killed your lover. Do you want to think about that that when you fuck me?" 

"I don't care!" she almost screeches. 

I am in total bewildered by this wacky woman. "I do," I reply bluntly. "I don't want to be inside of a woman, whose had my partner's murderer inside of her." 

She lets go of me. "Go then," she sneers angrily. "I don't want you in my house!" 

"You invited me in the first place." 

"Only because I thought you'd understand." 

"I never will." 

"Then fuck off."   
I smile sarcastically. " Don't worry, I will." 

I am still heading towards the front door when it suddenly opens with a bang, and there is - without a doubt - her husband, staring furiously at his wife and me. 

"I knew you were screwing around!" he yells in a deep voice that matches his bulky, athletically trained body. He doesn't look like a successful businessman at all. He wears a top, jeans and more gold than the Queen of Sheba. With her diamonds and his gold, they are probably worth a couple of million together. I wonder where he gets his cash. 

"Don't be ridiculous," she screeches behind me. "This man is an FBI-agent." 

"Oh, is that so? You went to his damned motel. You fucked him there, didn't you? And then you came back here." 

I want to show him my gun and badge, only to realize I have neither on me. I curse silently; angry at myself for leaving wherever I'm staying unarmed. 

"Look," I say, raising my hands. "I am an FBI-agent. I came to talk to your wife about a case I am working on." 

"Spare me the sordid details, I know all about her affair with Marshall." Mike turns towards Janine. "Or did you think I was blind. I sent a PI after you. I've known for months, and then I beat the crap out of Marshall. Why did you think he left Red Town so hastily?" 

"It was you?" Janine cries out. "You bastard! All this time I thought I had driven him away. How dare you do this to me?" 

"And how dare you keep living on my money while screwing half the town? Yes, I know about Roddy Williams too, and Steven Stegall. You're a beauty, Janine, but you don't have a brain in that empty skull of yours." 

I'd feel like laughing out loud, if it had it not been for the fact that Janine's hubby was one pissed off dude who could squash me like a gnat with one hand. Time to go. 

"Look," I say calmly, "I have what I came for. Thanks for your time. You two should really get some counselling." 

He grabs me when I walk past him. "I'm not finished with you yet!" 

"Yes, you are." I stare straight into his eyes. He seems worried for a second. Then he grunts. "If I find out you've been doing my wife, I'll kill you." He lets go. 

"Good luck," I say coldly. 

I'm at the door. "And don't you ever come back here, or I'll mash that face of yours!" 

"You and what team?" I mumble, nodding at the housekeeper who's obviously not happy with me. As soon as she closes the door behind me, I hear their loud voices competing. The heated argument can be heard miles away. 

I get into my car and drive off. 

Four blocks down, I stop at a bar. I lock the car and walk in. I am in need of something strong. 

"Coffee," I order, "as black as you have it. And can I see a menu please? I'm starved." The attractive waitress smiles appreciatively, as she passes me both my coffee and the very large menu. I order a main meal, another coffee and ask for half a litre of water too. She keeps on staring at me, however I've had enough of beautiful women for one day. I grab a newspaper and start scanning it, ignoring every move she makes. 

Then I try to enjoy my meal, wondering where I should go next, and what I should do. My thoughts go over the photo I have of Skinner. "He knows." It keeps on crossing my mind. What does Skinner know? And why would I have such a recent photo of him on me? I don't know. Perhaps it's time to find out. 

"Anything else?" the waitress asks. 

I look up at her. "You don't want me near you," I say. "I'm destructive, and sick." 

"You look like a perfectly fit masculine type to me, she retorts. 

"I have this condition," I say. "In a few moments you won't even have existed for me." She seems to know then, who I am. Perhaps word has gotten around in this town. I don't know. She leans forward and our lips touch for a long moment. She closes her eyes, but I don't. Her taste is sweet, her perfume overwhelming. When she moves backwards, her boss is watching us angrily. 

"I'm sure you will remember that," she smiles confidently. 

I look into her eyes. "Wanna bet?" 

And it seems as if the world, if only for one long second, turns completely black. 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

Everything feels unreal. 

Breathing, dressing, walking, talking, eating, drinking ... living. Every day normal tasks become unimportant. Shaving: who cares about a stubbled chin? Clean clothes: to who does it really matter now? Eating: why should I spend much money, when I don't recall what I've had? 

It should not have to matter, but it does. 

Nothing should matter when I need to find the one who killed you, Scully. Nothing seems important. Nothing should feel this unreal. 

I don't care about anything, Scully. 

Fuck this world. Fuck the people in it. Fuck the universe. Fuck the alien conspiracy and the date that may or may not have set. 

Fuck everything. 

Fuck me. 

Chapter nine: The truth written down on a piece of paper 

I look outside, through the dirty window that befits the rest of this hotel room. This place totally sucks. It is dreary, cold and very disturbing. 

I should not be here. 

I ache to be home, with the woman that I care for. She may not have been my sexual partner, but she was everything else to me. My reasons for continuing the X-Files, accepting humiliation and many defeats, working against people's wishes and fighting for what I believed in so badly. 

She may not have agreed in my faith, but at least she was always there. 

I told her once that she saved me over and over again. 

Then why did it have to end this way? Why have our lives been so utterly destroyed? 

I'm wrong. I do deserve to be here. I have earned the right to spend the rest of my life in grubby places. I am not entitled to my apartment, my job or even my life. 

I deserve purgatory. 

I saw Marshall coming that night. I reacted too slowly, and when she slid down that ledge, he stood there, watched and laughed when our fingers disconnected and her body lost control over its moves. 

He laughed when she careened down that hill. He enjoyed his victory. 

Who am I now really? 

Who was I the past week? 

I know that nothing will ever been the same. I suffer from grave headaches and have to take meds for them. I know that nothing I do let keep lasting memories in my subconsciousness. 

Nothing I've ever done before, has ever lead me close to this desolation. This is the darkest world I have ever encountered, ever been exposed to. I need someone to get me out, to free me from the despair, the aches and hunger for peace. 

How can I ever be at ease with myself, when nothing I do will ever change the past? Every morning I will wake up hating Marshall and regretting the injustice to Scully. Every hour of the day, every moment when my memory switches forward in its vicious circle, I will remember her. 

She has cast an everlasting recollection inside of me. 

I may not always have liked her. 

At times I hated her, but I have always needed her. 

Her abduction left me alone and hurt, dazed and suicidal. Her cancer forever destroyed our self-assurances, that we were mightier than life itself. We were forced to reconcile with the fact that our luck too, would some day come to an end. 

The deaths of those loved ones close to us, were destructive, hard and downright horrific. My encounter with alien technology, and my manic ability to read other people's minds was nothing compared to this. At least then, I heard her. Now, I hear nothing. 

Please. If there is a god out there, release me from this pain. 

Free me from the past. 

Allow me to move forward into the future. Grant me some peace.  
Do something.   
Nothing.   
Or everything. 

I step into an extremely hot shower and don't even wince when the hot water stabs at my skin. I think I might have taken another shower last night, but don't recall it. I smell fresh, after some good deodorant and nice shampoo. They are familiar scents, telling me I have the same items in the bag, I'm used to carrying. 

I just don't shave this morning. I don't feel the need to, and when I look into the mirror, I refuse to read the pain my own eyes. The bags underneath them show how badly I sleep. Perhaps I haven't slept for a long time. 

Strange, isn't it, how the human body takes over the controls once the mind no longer cares. My stomach tells me I'm hungry, my feet tell me that I did a lot of walking yesterday, and my head betrays my suffering from mind-numbing headaches and urges me I should take another pill. 

It's nine a.m. and already it feels as if I have lived an entire day. Strange, that something's nagging in the back of my head. I wonder what it is. I glare at the photos on the bed. One of them seems very new; not even wrinkled or torn like the others, which have obviously all been handled a lot. 

Skinner's face is on it. I take it in my hands and walk back to the window to look outside. I hold the photo up and study it. That photo has been taken from this very window, as he walked past the pool, away from me. It's a bit blurry. Skinner obviously looked straight into the camera, and didn't seem pleased. 

With a black pen - the one lying next to the phone - I have scribbled, "He knows", on it. I wonder what I meant by that? It could only mean one thing surely. The truth is out there, Scully, and it's a bitch. It comes in the form of Assistant-Director Walter Sergei Skinner, who followed me into this town to prevent me from killing John Marshall. 

I'm sure Skinner would not want me to kill off his old army buddy, especially when they had so much in common in the past. Is that really why he's here? 

Why else? 

Surely he doesn't care about the agent who killed off his own partner. He would be pleased to get rid of me, as would the Bureau. However, I still have my badge and gun. They're lying on the bed. I'm armed and protected as if I'm an FBI-agent investigating a case. What did I do? Take off like a thief in the night? 

A file lies on the bed also. It's Marshall's. I know it by heart. It has all the gory details of this man's past in it. I find a piece of paper that has a woman's address on it. Janine Rhodes. Dr. Rhodes, my notepad tells me, was one of the colleagues Marshall worked closely with during his time here. 

She must be able to tell me something. 

If my mind allows me, I'll look her up. 

I am close to the truth. I feel it. 

A knock on the door pulls me out of my stupor. I throw a towel over my gun and open the door. Clad in white shirt and jeans, barefoot, a petite redhead, who resembles Scully so much it makes me wince, stands nonchalantly before my door. She chews gum as if her life depends on it. Her red hair is cut in a bob that dance around her ears. She has lots of piercing and a few tattoos. Her fierce blue eyes are surrounded by heavy eyeliner and lots of mascara. Red, full lips and an uneven nose make her complete. No, she is not like Scully at all yet there is something in that face of hers. It's the eyes. 

"What?" I ask, turning my head from her. 

She blows a bubble. "You don't know me, do you?" The bubble pops. "No." 

"I'm the receptionist? Well, one of them. I worked the night shift today. You asked me two days ago, to look out for some bald guy who might be looking for you." 

"I've been here two days?" 

"Sure." She smiles as if remembering a joke. "My boss tried to sell you two rooms so you would pay double, but you figured it out. He still thinks you're a fruitcake though." 

"He's probably right. So what do you want?" 

"The bald guy is here," she says, stretching her hand with the palm up. "I'd like to get paid for what I am telling you." 

"How much did I promise you?" 

"Fifty bucks." 

I laugh. "I never offer more than twenty. I'm certain of that." 

She smiles. "You're right. So you're not so crazy after all?" 

"Who knows," I shrug, slapping a twenty in her hand. "What do you know?" 

"He's staying in this hotel. Room 110, across the pool. He didn't use his FBI-credentials to book a room. He asked for you." 

"What did you tell him?" 

"I lied at first, but he expected that. He talked about obstruction of justice and all that crap." 

"So?" 

"So I gave him your room number. Sorry." 

I shrug. "He probably knew anyhow. Give me that twenty back." 

"Why?" she asks defensively. 

"I'm not going to take it, I'll exchange it for something better." Reluctantly she gives it back. 

I take a fifty and rip it in half. "Hey!" she cries. 

I give her half of it. "I'll hand you the rest tomorrow if you keep another eye out for me. I want you keep a lookout for more FBI-agents. Find out if they're coming to arrest me, or take me away." 

She pales. "You're in serious shit, aren't you?" 

I laugh. "I don't know." 

"Okay," she shrugs. "When do I get the rest?" 

"Tomorrow. Just tell me I promised you a hundred. I'll probably be stupid enough to give to you." 

She laughs. "Sure." 

"Cya." I close the door and sit on the bed. 

Why? I ask myself.  
Why did I write that on Skinner's photo? Thinking about it drives me mad. 

Make notes, Mulder. Gather everything you have and jot it down. It all helps. 

I tear off a large piece of paper and start juggling with the facts, as I know them. 

Fact: Skinner is in room 110 of this hotel. He didn't tell them he was FBI. Fact: Skinner was probably in here. I took a photo of him when he left and wrote down, "He knows." Fact: Scully was murdered by John Marshall who lived in this town, before he moved shop and slashed four women. Fact: Marshall had an accomplice who hit me over the head, destroying my short-term memory. Fact: I have been in this town for two days, probably looking for Marshall. Fact: I am partly responsible for Scully's death too. Fact: I have most likely spoken to Janine Rhodes already. Fact: Marshall was a medical doctor and a friend of Skinner's during `Nam'. Fact: I don't trust Skinner. 

What I don't know:  
Am I here to kill Marshall or to find his accomplice? Is Marshall really dead?  
Will I ever regain my memory-abilities? Who have I met so far?  
What do I really know?   
Why am I really here? 

I stare at the bottle of pills lying lonely on the bed and swallow one, downing warm water from a glass that I found lingering on the small table. This room is a total mess. I've been sloppy and totally messed up. 

I get up and accidentally drop the paper on the ground. 

"Damn it," I mutter as the sheet slivers underneath the bed. I crawl on my knees and lift the bedspread. There are two papers on the ground. I pick them both up. I do not write one of them, but I know that handwriting. It's Skinner's. 

I sit down on the floor. My legs would not be able to hold me much longer anyhow. I stare at the paper for seconds, rereading everything that's on it. 

I don't remember a single word of what he's ever told me about John Marshall - nothing said after June 8th, that is. I've spoken to him several times, according to this note. I have been in search for help, consolidation, aid and reassurance. I haven't found it. 

I bite my lip as I stare at those words. They are burned for a few moments inside that faulty memory of mine, yet I know I will forget them. This can't be an old paper. Perhaps Skinner left it for me to read. I probably shoved it underneath the bed deliberately. I hold it next to the notes I jotted down for myself. 

No, if this is true, I cannot stand it. I can't! Nothing makes sense anymore. 

I feel tears streaming down my cheeks. I need to get to Skinner. I need to talk to him about this. I need to ask him the truth. If this is real, then there's hope. There must be! 

Oh god. 

I drop both papers on the ground and they slide partially underneath the bed again. Hell, I'll pick them up later. I just need to get out of here, and to find the man who can help me. He's in room 110. 

I leave everything here in my room- and car keys that are in my pockets. I stuffed the photos and notes in my arms. Gotta talk to Skinner now, before I lose all memory again. Don't have much time. 

I'm almost panicking as I jog towards the swimming pool. The other building is next to the reception area, near the parking lot. 

"Mr. Mulder!" An old man greets me from his small balcony below his room on the first floor. His cry disturbs me. I look up. 

"Yes?" 

"How are you doing this morning? Everything okay? Did you get your memory back yet?" I ignore the old man and carry on walking, passing the reception area and heading towards the stairs leading to the first floor. Skinner is there. I need. To. Talk. 

About Scully. 

Yeah, Scully. 

He told me things about Scully. 

I stop when black flashes across my mind. The sunlight hurts my eyes. My feet don't want to move anymore. I don't know where I'm heading. I look towards the parking lot. An Audi TT stops on the lot. A beautiful woman steps out. Like any man would, I glare. 

Ah yes. I was heading towards the boring beige Mondeo, wasn't I? I must have been. The keys are in my pocket. 

I unlock the so-obvious FBI-rental car with the remote and walk towards it. 

Intermezzo  
June 15 

Do you know what it's like not to know if it's daytime or night, Scully? Sometimes I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, and I don't know the hour because I don't have an alarm clock. I switch on the lights then, and glare at my watch. It tells me it's only four a.m. , yet I already feel very much alert and awake. 

I don't know how to fill the hours now, because there are no hours to fill. There is darkness, emptiness and a whole lot of nothingness. Repeat. Fade. Repeat. Fade.   
What a life I have, hey Scully?  
Death is better than this. 

Perhaps I should just take all those pills at the same time, and drown myself in them. I'm sure they'll kill me. They should. There are enough of them. 

Chapter ten: "This is the truth, Mulder. Accept it, or fade away." 

I dream. 

In a different world I'm a free man enjoying his life. I have parents who love me, a sister who grew up to become a strong, levelheaded, charming woman, and a wife that cares for me. 

I have Scully. 

Sometimes she's my wife. Usually she isn't. She is my best friend. I'm in awe of her talent and beauty, her wit and self-respect. She is kind and friendly, laughs and jokes, and snaps her latex when she's examining the body of a man who died of gunshot wounds. There never was an X-Files. We are FBI-agents working on rough ordinary cases, but supported by the ones we love. 

Often I think I am a professor giving psychology classes in Oxford. My students adore me. The girls make passes at me, and I wink at them behind my reading glasses. 

I have two children: a boy and a girl. They are the spitting image of Sam and I. They like soccer and tennis. She's a good player. 

They are such beauties. 

In another world I'm a free, careless man whose greatest worry is what he's going to get for dinner that night. 

The dreams always turn nasty of course. Empty, hollow and useless. 

Reality is a bitch. My mind is being fucked with big time. 

Sharp knocks on the door startle me. 

I don't know where or when I am. I open my eyes tiredly and wait for a moment, hoping the knock was someone's mistake. 

It isn't. 

More knocking. 

I groan deeply, turn my head and body at the same time, staring at the door of my nameless hotel room. It's not the best one I've been in. In fact, even the sheets smell damp and used. 

I grunt, forcing myself to roll out of bed. With a heavy head, I open the door while rubbing my eyes. I'm clad only in black boxer shorts but don't give a damn if anyone can see me like this. They shouldn't be knocking on my door at - let's see - Seven bloody AM. 

My sleep deprivation is soon forgotten, when I spot Skinner standing there. 

"Are you crazy?" I groan, stepping aside to allow him access. He seems surprised by this gesture of mine. "It's barely morning." 

"I was afraid you'd be gone by now. I needed to catch you sooner." 

"For what? Isn't this anything that can wait?" 

"No. Mulder, do you know where you are?" 

I sit on the bed and force the cobwebs from my mind. "No," I finally admit. 

"Mulder, you are very sick. You need help. I came to take you home." 

I look at him as if he has gone mad. "Where's Scully?" I ask. 

He stares at me. "Mulder, you are in Red Town. You came here to track down Marshall and kill him. Do you recall any of that?" 

Finally my mind seems to retrieve some of its recollections. Some. 

"No." 

"You are suffering from anterogade amnesia." Skinner's eyes scan the room until he finds something he's looking for. "Check your notes. You've had to trust them for a couple of days now. It's June 15 today, Mulder. I flew into Vegas last night and drove up here to get you back. I've had a hard time tracking you down." 

"What for? To stop me from killing Marshall?" I say slowly. "You won't be able to stop me." 

Skinner pulled open the curtains, allowing fierce daylight to bleach into the room. I'm blinded by it and wince. I feel like someone who emptied the bar last night. Nausea creeps up my throat. A puking session doesn't sound so bad right now. Skinner won't allow me that though. 

"We don't have much time," he speaks hastily. 

"Time for what?" 

"I have to take you back." 

"Back where?" 

"Get your things together. We need to move." 

"Wait a minute," I grunt. "Just wait a second. Let me think." 

"We're fighting the clock, Mulder," Skinner explains. "Please, trust me." 

"No. I won't go anywhere until you tell me what you want." He sighs and glances at his watch. I have never seen him this nervous. "You'd better sit down for this." 

I open and close my mouth. I'm already sitting, startled by his behaviour. 

"One week ago," he starts, "you were ambushed by John Marshall. I asked you to investigate a case of missing persons in his hometown. They were all friends of his. He had affairs with two of them. The other two were women he fancied. You figured that much out. You profiled him. You drove up to the cabin he owns, but he wasn't supposed to be there. You wanted to search for evidence and had a search warrant with you." 

"But he was there," I say slowly. 

"Yes, he was." 

"He came out unarmed," I continue. "He wanted to talk to us. He allowed us inside to take a look around. When I was in one room and Scully in the other, he hit her and dragged her outside. I couldn't fire: he used her as a shield." 

"Yes, and he dragged her to the edge of the cliff. She was struggling for consciousness. Without giving it a second thought, he pushed her over the edge. She fell, and clamped onto something. You shot Marshall, but he was only wounded. He watched as you struggled to hold onto Scully." 

"But he was not alone." 

"There was a woman was by his side. She was his new lover. She hid in the attic while you searched the house then she came outside. You couldn't hold onto Scully. She slipped away from you. The woman thought you were going to kill Marshall, and was fairly pissed at you. She hit you over the head using a crystal vase. It struck you and knocked you out for a while. You were unconscious. She took your gun and was going to kill you, but you don't know that. You'd passed out. I killed her before she could shoot you. I shot Marshall too, killing him." 

I stare at Skinner. 

"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask, incredulously. 

"Because you don't remember the details, Mulder, and you certainly don't know what happened after you became unconscious. There's so much you are unaware of, and I have tried to tell you this over and over again, but you forget it every single time. I don't know how long I have to persuade you to return to D.C. with me, to receive proper treatment for your condition, and get things straightened out." 

I look at him suspiciously. "I don't recall you talking to me." 

"You know what this amnesia is, Mulder. You wouldn't remember it because it doesn't allow you to grasp everything or retain what I've just told you. In a few moments - an hour maybe, or two - you will sit in this room and not remember the truth, and I am so tired, Mulder, so sick of explaining this to you." 

I just stare at him. 

"I have travelled across the country to find you. I've taken time off work. No one at the Bureau knows you suffer from this amnesia. They shouldn't know because it will cost you your badge." 

"They can't keep me in their service like this anyway," I retort. 

"They can and they will. If you get better." 

"How can I get better?" I ask. "This condition is irreversible. That part of my brain that retains short term function is damaged." 

"No, it hasn't," Skinner, explains desperately. "However, I can't explain everything to you here. I need to find a way to get you to D.C. with me. There's a doctor I trust. He will help us." 

I rise up. "Don't you get it?" I say angrily, "I can't get better or even improve, it's irreversible!" 

He sighs. "Oh god. I just wish I could convince you of the truth." 

"I know the truth." 

"No, you don't." 

I lick my lips. "Please, leave me alone. Scully is dead. Why force me to see the facts over again, its painful enough, when I already know them? If you came here to tell me it's not my fault she died, you're wasting your time and breath. I will live have to live with this." 

"Mulder, Scully is alive!" 

I sink on the bed, almost missing it. My legs quiver, my hands shake. 

"What?" 

"She is in the hospital, but she's not dead!" 

"You're lying," I snap. "You're telling me this to get me back with you. Go to hell, Skinner. Don't do this to me, Fuck off!" 

"Mulder, you have to believe me. It's true. Scully is very much alive. Up until yesterday we didn't know if she would pull through, but she woke up late last night and has been asking for you ever since." 

"No. No!" I shake my head. "I saw her die! Don't screw with my brain, Skinner!" 

"You have trusted me so many times in the past. Why would I lie now? I'm your friend! I want you to know everything." 

I can't believe it. I want to so much but I can't, I refuse to. Scully fell off the ledge. I heard her screams, and the way her body hit the trees and the rocks. No one could have survived that fall. It is a lie! He's doing this to mess with my head. He's telling me I am crazy and wants to have me locked up. This way I can't kill Marshall when I see him. He has to convince me to take me back, doesn't he? 

But - what if it's true? Can I really refuse to see her again, take the chance that it's true? I glare at Skinner who seems as giddy as a child. Is this true? Can it be so? Is Scully really alive? And then I realize: what if she is? I will never remember her the way it was. I will always have that last image of her falling. Every time I start a new cycle, I will remember her death before anything else. 

How could she work with a mental cripple like me? She wouldn't be able to accept it. She would search for a new partner in a flash, and forget about me. I will surely have forgotten about her. In my mind she is dead. 

Skinner will never accept that. 

I am better off missing. Ignorance is bliss. 

He looks at me. 

"Mulder, there is more. So much more." 

"Not now," I say tiredly. "Please." 

"You need to know this too. It's hard, but you have to face the truth. It's everything right now." 

"No!" I shout. 

He is hurt. 

"Pack your bags," he finally says. "I am taking you home. If you don't come with me now, I will force you. I am trying to save your life and your career. If you cannot accept that, then I will force you to." 

I stare bitterly. "Fuck you, Skinner." 

"You have ten minutes to pack your things. I'll be back here by then." 

I shrug. 

Reluctantly he closes the door and I lock it behind him. My mind starts thinking of the possibilities to get out of here. I don't want to go home to find out that he's lied to me. I don't want to return to find Scully abhorring me, hating me for the fruitcake that I've become. I can't be an agent anymore like this, ever. I have nothing left worth fighting for, even if she is alive. 

It's all over. 

I sit on the floor and wait until he returns. He knocks on the door. Softly at first, and then louder. He repeats my name over and over again. I put my hands against my ears and rock back and forth; back and forth all the time. Go to hell, Skinner. 

Something slides underneath my door. A piece of paper. I wait until he leaves. Then I get up, take the Polaroid camera and hold it against the window. He's by the pool and turns back. I think he sees me taking the photo. He looks very unhappy. I wait until it develops, take the black pen resting on the table and scribble on the back: "He knows." 

My mind goes crazy. I don't know why I wrote that. He knows what? That Scully is alive? That I'm here? That I'm nuts? That I don't want to go back? It could mean anything. What if I find this photo again? Will I think he was Marshall's accomplice? A killer? I consider the options. 

"I'll never go back," I say out loud, having made my decision. I won't be a nuisance, or burden to people. 

I reach for the note sticking out my hand to grab it. I crawl forward to pick it up, sitting against the bed while reading it. My fingers tremble. 

Oh god. 

It's handwritten by Skinner. 

"Mulder, I wrote this letter to help you remember. I am afraid you won't go back with me. You'll use every excuse or reason not to. You're afraid of the truth. Scully is alive. She wants to see you. However, you don't want to go back because you believe you'll never return to your old self. That's not how it will be, Mulder? You will! 

Keep this note, Mulder. It is the truth. The blow to your head did not cause the anterogade amnesia. The pill's you are taking are causing this disease. It is not irreversible. 

Don't shut yourself away. 

Let me help you. 

"Skinner." 

Oh no. 

I read the note a thousand times and then another thousand. This is not true. It can't be. 

But what if - ? 

I struggle to get up, throwing the note on the floor. It slips underneath the bed, and I crawl forward to grasp it, hitting my head against the wooden bed pole. I wince, sit backwards and rub my forehead. 

I need to get to Skinner. Need to talk to him about this. Need to find out the truth. I reach for his photo lying on the bed. Need to destroy that before I destroy him. 

I need to - 

Damn. 

What was I doing again? 

Part three 

Chapter eleven: June 13 

I suffer. 

Skinner stands in my room. He's looking at the bed I lay in, watching me with a strange sort of contempt. It feels as if I am already dead. He leans forward, but his voice doesn't sound like his at all. It's smooth and soft, as if the rough edges to it are gone. He's like a ghost entering my thoughts, telling me what I've done wrong. I open my eyes and he changes into a rotten corpse-version of Scully. Her face is distraught and anguished, and her raspy voice coming through broken-off teeth asks me accusingly, why I let go. I beg her to understand that it wasn't like that, but she laughs in a horrid way. She became a zombie, a creature returning from the dead in the devastated form that was once hers. However, her finger points accusingly at me, telling me that I'm the one who did this to her. 

"You didn't protect me, Mulder!" the raw indictment dripping from her words. 

I wake up drenched in sweat, crying out, at the same milli-second wondering where I am and why I'm here. 

I startle when I notice I'm at the Las Vegas Airport, sitting on one of the plastic benches in the waiting area. My cry alerts several people. I see shocked children stare at me, and parents take them by the hands, drawing them away from me. I feel like I have the black plague, or smallpox. I'm a walking disease. I'm infected with the most horrid of inflictions. Everyone fears me. 

I don't know why I grew tired enough to rest there, amongst hundreds of passengers passing back and forth. I can't understand why I took the chance to stay here, when I am obviously on the run for something, or someone. It feels that way anyhow. 

They all look strangely at me. I ignore their stares and move away from the bench I'm seated on. An older woman shuffles backwards out of my path. 

I have my familiar overnight bag on me, and know that I must be heading somewhere. My memory betrays me though: I don't seem to have any recollection of a destination, or a path I chose to walk upon. 

A scan of my pockets brings solace. I find a bottle of prescription pills. I open it and swallow a tablet, forcing it down my dry throat. I hate the taste of it. Hopefully the headaches will subside now. That's what the label claims they do. 

I know about this amnesia thing. 

You see, there was a guy who we met briefly. He had this condition too, and couldn't remember anything that had happened to him in his short-term memory. He died soon after. His wife had poisoned him: feeding him an overdose of pills that made his body wither and collapse. She didn't believe him at first, and when she did finally, she used it to kill him in the most insidious way a woman can destroy her husband. 

I was fascinated by the story, researching the details in medical records, on the Internet and in books; and I also saw the movie: Memento. Fabulous, stunning movie that was, regarding similar subject matter on this rare condition. If I could tell my own story now, I'd tell it backwards too. Then again, I have no control over anything, do I? I live the story. I'm in it, starring in it, controlling it. Without me, there is no tale. There is nothing but the ghost of the man I used to be. 

Life's a bitch and then you die.   
Isn't that right, Scully? 

I groan slightly as I leave the Las Vegas-airport, and find my way towards the car rental agency. I request a vehicle suitable for FBI-purposes and get a Mondeo. I'm used to the car's performances. They're good. The Feds use them a lot. I pay with the Bureau's credit card. I don't wish to delete my traces. Perhaps someone will find me and tell me the purpose of all this. 

I'm on the road now, heading for Red Town, a place some twenty miles from Vegas' busy core. My notes tell me that I am looking for a John Marshall who used to live there. If he's not there, find out where he went: I read in the message to myself. 

I have the Bureau's file with me. I wonder why no one stopped me from heading in this direction. I wonder why I'm not in D.C. for Scully's funeral. I'm sure that would have been in the past few days, or perhaps we put her in the ground this morning, and I decided to take off for my revenge straight afterwards. Maybe that's the only thing I have left now. The one thing no one will take away from me. 

I step into the Mondeo, shoving my overnight bag and portfolio with the file and details into it on the passenger seat, and take my time scanning the road map. It's not so difficult to find. I'm fairly certain I don't have a room booked: if I decided on this plan early this morning, I would just pack up quickly and leave. 

I take the vehicle out of town, taking a long detour past the Strip. Bright lights flash into my eyes, illuminating the huge driveway into a rainbow of colours. People traverse the sidewalks everywhere, to and from casinos, bars and hotels, entangled with their lovers, friends or family. Inside my car I feel terribly alone. It seems that I'm the only person in the whole world tonight, and I view the rest of the scenery through dark tinted glass, my lonely barrier to becoming part of the outside world. 

Vegas is a special place anyhow, and my current depressed mood makes it all the more appropriate that I'm here. I'm alone, I feel totally alone, and live alone. I will never trust anyone else. I've given everything I had to one woman and now she's gone. She has taken my trust and confidence into the grave with her. If I have to live the remaining years of my life this way, in this desolate world of oblivion, then I will see it as the punishment I rightfully deserve. 

If I had any tears left, I would use them now. My eyes are dry and feel sore, as if I've been shedding them for days. 

If only there was some hope left in me, that I have a place to go after this. If only I could find someone who could turn back time and save us both. 

If only. 

I reach the outskirts of dreary Red Town in only fifteen minutes. I drive around its small, dusty centre and drive up through the streets. It has a couple of hotels and motels, probably profiting from those who do not want to stay in Vegas, while spending all of their cash on the slot machines and casinos. All the hotels seem dreary and old. They probably charge next to nothing. 

Three hotels are fully booked, or so the signs say, but the fourth has vacancies available. I walk into the reception area and found a redheaded bubblegum-chewing bimbo waiting for me behind the reception desk. She looks disinterested and I have the shock of my life, when I discovered a lot of Scully-comparisons underneath all that make-up and posture. 

"How long do you need a room for?" she asks indifferently. 

"I don't know," I admit. "A couple of days, I guess." 

"Two days, three days, four days..?" 

"I'll pay for three nights in advance." 

"Sign here." 

She shoves a piece of crumbled yellow paper underneath my fingers. I sign with shaking hand. Holding a pen feels awkward, as if I haven't touched one in ages. She gives me my room key, and a key to the outside gates and -door. Then I walk past the filthy swimming pool towards the building behind it. 

The room is even worse than I expected. It's old, dreary and feels cold, despite the humid weather. I open the window as I try to get a bit of warmth inside, check the small tiled bathroom and sink, and then look the bed feeling very much out of it. I close the window again at long last, slump down on the bed and try to get some sleep. It doesn't work. 

I'm like the ultimate jet-lagger who's trying to get his mind to stop working, so that he can get a bit of rest. My mind: too active, works against its own will, my body is tired but listens to the thoughts in my skull. I just lay there, staring into nothingness for what feels like an eternity. 

Finally I unpack the few belongings that I have. Two jeans, two black sweaters, some T-shirts, underwear, shaving equipment and other various garments, a towel, my gun and badge, wallet, and the map I have on Marshall. In the bottom of my bag I find a stack of five photos. All of them have Scully on them, one way or another. Smiling into the camera, looking serious, staring in surprise, as if she didn't know that picture was being taken, and a final one that resembles her FBI-badge-photo. 

I feel my throat thicken. 

No, don't weep! Don't you dare. 

Yet I feel myself sliding to the floor, and sobs pass through my body, wracking me so badly that I physically ache. I see her, and then I don't. She's with me in this room and then she's not. 

I want her by my side so badly. 

Without her, my life as it is, means nothing. 

I hold the photos, hold them against my face and soak them in tears. My sobs become occasional anguished whimpers. I crawl forward on the floor, roll onto my side, and hold onto that what I have left of her. 

If only I could die now.   
If her god is merciful enough, he might send down lightning and let it strike me dead. Or perhaps he'll allow me to forget my sorrows for only a few moments and cast this terrible reality from me. 

Nothing happens. 

I calm down slowly and start helping myself: A note to tell myself where I'm staying, and in what room. Another note that tells me that Marshall is here in this town. Another message explains that I am driving a Mondeo. 

From Marshall's file, I gather he worked in the small local Red Town hospital. I might as well go there now, to see what sort of place he came from. It's a start. 

I clean the traces of tears from my face, barely looking into my own eyes and leave the room. It takes me less than two minutes to drive up to the hospital. It's indeed a small facility, large enough to accomodate the population of 20,000 that Red Town holds. 

I park the car in the visitor's parking lot and walk inside. It's nine p.m. and all visitors have left for the night. There's only the medical staff and the unfortunate, unwilling guests that remain here. 

At the reception, a woman of about fifty greets me with a warm smile on her face. 

"How may I help you?" she asks. 

"I'm looking for someone who can tell me more about a doctor who used to work here: John Marshall." I flash my badge and she pales. 

"Is there something wrong with John?" 

I look more intently at her. "Did you know him personally?" 

"Yes, of course. He was an attending doctor here for ten years. I know everyone in this town." 

"Then you're the right person to talk to. Can we grab a coffee?" 

"Sure. Let me tell my colleague." 

She moves away from me, and goes to talk to a younger woman who stares openly at me. She seems fascinated by my appearance. I know I look dreary, tired and downright exhausted. Why should anyone believe me when I identify myself? I hardly believe anything at all. 

The woman, who says her name is Martha Knowles, takes me to the small cafeteria where the nursing staff usually gets together. The coffee is predictably lousy and the milk comes from dry sachets, but it tastes right now like the best thing I've ever had. Sitting here only reveals how fatigued I am. I don't know what I've been doing all day, but it feels like I have run a marathon. 

"Are you okay, sir?" the woman asks when I rub my eyelids, trying to focus on what she is saying. 

"Yeah. Just tell me about Marshall." 

"What do you want to know about him?" 

"What he was like working here. If he got into trouble with anyone. What his deal was." 

"You speak of him as if he's dead," she says confused. 

I look up. "Do I really?" 

She doesn't like sitting here with me, I can tell. But I am too far-gone to care about anyone's feelings. If this is the path leading towards my ultimate destiny, I will take it at any time. I don't care what happens next. 

"Who are you really?" she asks. 

I stare at her. 

"You have so much grief inside of you, that it actually fills the room. Have you lost someone? Did Dr. Marshall do something to you?" 

I feel my throat close again. In my mind I'm holding those pictures one more time, tearing them up afterwards, because they resemble a past that can never be found again. 

Then she nods, as if she understands. 

"He did hurt you." 

"Yes." 

"What did he do?" 

"He became a serial killer and murdered four women. Then he killed my partner." She raises a hand to her mouth and holds it there, keeping her breath inside. "No," she then lets it out in a burst. "Please, no -" 

Tears spring up in her eyes. She seems to care so much. It's as if she knows him better than anyone. She shakes her head and stares at her coffee, grasping the cup with both hands, despite the fact that the liquid's still piping hot. I grasp her fingers and make her look up. Pity enters my thoughts again, even though I had sworn I would never feel sorry for anyone who knew this creep. 

"He was a good friend," she says. "But I always suspected there was a killing streak in him." 

"How so?" 

"When he came into this hospital, he had this look in his eyes. He was young, ambitious, and he cared enough for his patients. Yet he often didn't care when someone died. He would shrug, saying that life goes on: that every doctor loses at least one out of ten patients. Sometimes, he would come and sit with me in this very room, and talk about his feelings on life and death. He said that any human being had the right to destroy, and that it wasn't up to God to kill solely." 

"What did you say then?" I ask coolly. 

"I told him I believe in only one God. He's our Maker and will take us when the time comes. No one decides that. He just smiled and told me I was nave. `Life is about killing'; he used to say. As soon as you are born, you're the world's next victim. It was such a cold way of looking at things, that I wondered why he became a doctor in the first place. However, he seemed basically a good man, sir. He cared for his patients. He was always the last doctor to stick around. I saw him read poetry to dying people." 

"Have you ever suspected him of killing his patients?" I ask wearily, horrified to find out that he might have been responsible for many more deaths. 

She shakes her head. "No." 

"But it could have happened."  
She swallows and sips her coffee. She has more to tell, but her hands shake. "I'm sorry," she whispers hoarsely, "I shouldn't be talking about this. I'm not entitled to." 

"Why? Hospital policy?" 

"I'm just the desk clerk, sir. I don't have anything to say in this hospital. It's not up to me to change what has happened." 

"I'm not going to investigate possible murders in Red Town anymore," I tell her, and suddenly I feel eager to confess to the truth that only I know right now. It should have an outlet, someone to listen to it. 

"I have this condition," I tell her. "It happened when my partner was murdered. I've have lost my short-term memory ability, and cannot regenerate new ones. In a few moments, or a couple of hours, I will lose everything that we've spoken about, and not remember you. It may sound strange, but that's the way it is." 

She stares at me in shock. Then she grasps my hand even more firmly, and our fingers - warm to the touch - connect. "That must be so lonely," she whispers. 

I smile a weary grin. "I think it is." 

Her tears have faded as fast as they came. Yet her sorrow and sympathy for a man she used to trust enter my heart. It stays there and for one long moment I sense that John Marshall was a man once. A decent one perhaps: one who would not kill. Then what changed him? 

It's as if she reads my thoughts. "There was the rumour of an affair he had with a fellow doctor, Janine Rhodes. She's a real beauty. He wasn't the first one, and I suspect he wasn't the last one either. Perhaps you should talk to her. She's not here today. You could catch her tomorrow." 

"Thank you." 

The woman nods and wipes her mouth with a napkin lying discarded on the table. I shake her hand and leave the room. Then I wander through the hospital, going room in, room out. I want to know where Marshall has been, what he did and how he went about it. This was his turf once, and it feels like it's been contaminated by his presence. 

I hate that man so much. No, hate is not the correct word. I loathe him. Despise him. Detest what he has done to me and how it was done. Now I know he wasn't alone to do when he did it. He was shot and hurt when my partner slid off that ledge, and I lay there. Someone else hit me on the head and took away my sanity. 

I have a note that says in capital letters: `Accomplice.' 

That is the one I'm looking for now. Deep in my heart, I know that Marshall is dead. I can deny it, but I sense that he's gone. He might have been gone for a couple of days, or perhaps I've already put a bullet in his brain. Maybe the FBI is searching for me now, going through my things to find out where I might be heading. 

Furthermore, I leave traces for them. I do it on purpose. I use their credit cards, their rental cars and their resources. I know that I want someone to stop me. I realize that I am about to become a killer. If no one stops me, I will turn into one soon. 

My visit to Red Town is like a cry for help. Somewhere, somehow, someone must be able to tell me the meaning to all of this. Until that time, I know that I'm a walking time bomb, ready to go off at any time. Anything can trigger it. 

Anyone can. 

Deep in my thoughts I've pegged Walter S. Skinner as a potential candidate for my wrath. He knew Marshall. They were buddies. Sometimes a friendship that goes way back, is more important than the situation that has forced Skinner to reinvent his whole life within the Bureau. We have seen much together, but he has been in the ditches with Marshall. 

What runs thicker? 

I wonder. 

I leave the hospital and drive through the streets of this town. I have Marshall's old address. According to my information, an elderly couple now inhabits the townhouse. No one in Red Town knows that Marshall became a murderer. He did his killings on the East Coast, far away from their sources. If it ever came on CNN or any other news channel, I don't know about it. I wouldn't remember. 

I stop at the house and try to peek inside. I don't knock on their door and beg to see his old place; it's not my business to do so. I don't really want to know about this man, yet I have an insatiable curiosity about him at the same time. He's constantly in my thoughts. He was there when I started gathering memories in this particular time zone. He is next to Scully, crisping and roasting there like a barbecue gone sour. 

I wish I could see him one more time. 

I want to ask him why he did it. I can't understand his actions, even though I profiled him. The difference with other serial killers is that this one destroyed my personal life. That alone makes him my main interest in life. 

Curiosity killed the cat. 

Will it also kill me? 

I wander back to the hotel room and lock the door. I'm so very tired, but I have to jot down more notes. I write down the name of the female doctor: Janine Rhodes. I scribble the information on my notepad and then close the books. 

I will lose it all again, I'm sure. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to think. I just want her. 

I can actually feel the switch trip inside my head as the memories are taken from me. I'll find him, Scully.  
I swear. 

Chapter Twelve: June 11 

I know this place from top to bottom. It's the apartment I live in. It's not beautiful or even extraordinary, but it's mine. It's dark, as it always has been. I don't like the light very much. Usually, when I'm here, it's nighttime anyhow. When it's not, I lower the blinds to watch TV. 

I know every corner, every curve and every room. I know there's hardly any food in the fridge, and that the waterbed leaks about twice every year. I can't get it to stop doing that. I've considered throwing it out. There's a wooden floorboard that creaks whenever you walk on it. It's near the sofa, the exact place where I usually place my feet when I slump off the couch. 

The television needs to be replaced. The VCR is worn out, and I bought a DVD-player about a year ago to watch porn, or my favourite old-time movies. They're difficult to get your hands on and usually cost a fortune. They still don't have Plan 9 from Outer Space on DVD either. Can't throw the VCR out then, can I? 

Everything inside this apartment breathes my influence. The fish have been replaced about four times, because they usually die when I'm out of town longer than a few days. I clean out the tank when I'm at home and feel like spending some time doing something else than watch TV. I have a drawer with a list of take-out places, who also happen to deliver food at the apartment. There's this fabulous Chinese place just around the corner, a greasy Kebab-place that I cannot stand, although it still has the best Lamb Special in the area, a Pizza-place of course and a Thai Food Corner that serves gorgeous Chicken Deluxe that makes you want to lick off your fingers afterwards. 

When I look around this place, I see so many memories of the past. There's the couch that I've slept on for years - I still haven't figured out when I ever bought that waterbed - I must have been nuts! - the computer that has been replaced about six times with newer models, the paintings and colourings on the wall I haven't changed in ten years. In the hallway there's the mahogany desk that I picked up at a flea market, and the chairs that don't match with it. I don't have a dining room table. It's not like I have that many people coming over anyhow: and when I do, we eat in front of the TV. 

Good thing takeaway food is not so expensive around here. Sometimes I charge it with the Bureau's credit card, claiming on my expense account that I was working late at the office and brought my own food. 

Today, I sit in this apartment and feel very tired, very dazed. It's as if a portion inside of my brain is missing. I don't know where it went. I triple-checked the time and date. It's June 11, and the last thing I remember is yesterday morning. I recall having spoken to Skinner, having seen someone lying in a hospital bed. I have difficulty remembering who that was. She looked very much like Scully, but that cannot be. I am fairly certain that Scully is dead. She died a few days ago, falling off a cliff. Yet my mind is playing tricks on me. It tells me that Scully is dead, and yet she's not. 

It's strange. 

I feel utterly depressed. I don't think I'm supposed to be sitting here. I'm overwhelmed with an anger that wants me going after the man, who brought me to this position, this sorrow. His name is Dr. Marshall. My mind is boggling. I'm so confused. I saw Scully in a coma, but and I saw her dead. I must have dreamt the first part. 

Where has the last day gone? 

I find several notes on my table and a Polaroid camera next to it. I haven't taken any pictures yet. I must have left it here for a reason. A brand new note with my own handwriting on it shocks me. It tells me that I have Anterogade amnesia. I know what that is. In fact, all the details of it lay fresh in my memory. It is as if I've read a book on it. 

I feel myself sinking on the couch. If this is true and I have it, then what should I do? Should I not be looking for someone who can help me? If Scully is gone, can I not turn to Skinner? 

I reach for the phone yet stop in my tracks. Why isn't anyone here? Why am I alone? Why do I not trust anyone? I must have a reason for it. There has to be an explanation. 

I have scribbled words on a notepad. It lies next to the file, I myself, have created on Dr. Marshall, killer. I must have jotted down those words some time ago. I can't remember when. One sentence shocks me more, even though I already know the truth: Scully is dead. 

I rage with anger. I pick up the file and throw it on the ground. Something needs to be done! I can't leave it like this! This is what has been done to me: the total destruction of the human mind, embedded forever inside an isolated cell that can't be re-opened. 

I sink onto my couch and close my eyes, shutting them with my hands. I know every detail of this apartment, I could walk through it blindfolded and not hit a single thing but I don't remember anything ever regarding that day. 

The memory of Scully in her hospital bed returns. I can recall holding her hand, touching her skin and talking to her. Her face is bruised and her skin feels hot to the touch. She is on a respirator, and her eyes are taped shut to keep them from drying out. She's very weak, and extremely vulnerable. She feels like china that could break anytime at the slightest touch. 

I think I confuse this image of her with a long-time memory after her abduction. Some things however, have altered. It's a different room she's in now, one with beige-painted walls and paintings, which seem soothing to the people waiting at her bedside. She looks different too: her face is thinner and her body smaller, and her body seems bruised here and there. Her leg is elevated, as if she's broken it. 

A mixture of images becomes one, and then just as quickly, it's gone again. It's out of my thoughts and I can't grasp onto it anymore. It's part of my past and this is the present. 

Reality sucks. 

I want to sleep. Rest. 

Instead, I linger about and hope that someone will come in and tell me what I've done wrong with my life. 

Along with my memory a lot of strength has disappeared. I'm so mixed up. Messed up. Confused. Dazed. Nothing works anymore. 

Should I pick up the phone and call the nuthouse? 

As if my thoughts have been heard, the phone rings and shocks the hell out of me. I don't pick it up. Instead, I wait for the answering machine to jump into action, hoping against hope, that it will be Scully asking me where the hell I am. 

Instead, I hear the familiar voice of Margaret Scully. That, perhaps, is even a greater shock. 

"Fox," she says as only she can say, "I'm worried about you. Please give me a call." That's all. 

Not even two minutes later the phone rings again. This time it's Skinner. "If you're there, pick up the phone." He waits a few moments and then hangs up. He tries my cell too, but I shut it down. He phones my home number again. This time, a longer message. 

"Mulder, I know what you're doing. Don't do this to yourself. Stay there, I'm on my way." My instincts tell me I should not be talking to him, or to anyone. I should be doing something else. 

My eyes fall on an airline ticket lying on the table underneath the file. It's a ticket taking me from D.C. to Los Angeles. I'm surprised. A Post-It explains that Marshall lived there for a few months, before coming to the East Coast. I've also written down the directions to Red Town. My notepad tells me I'm to go to L.A. first, and from there, fly into Vegas. Check out L.A. It will be a loose end, then Red Town. Reason for murder? 

I know every single word that's in that file. I had explored the possibility that Marshall's killing spree, had been set off by a romantic event in his past. He might have been involved with a married woman, or betrayed by a lover from his past. He had an accomplice! The last sentence reads. It's clear to me that I'm after Marshall. 

A bottle of prescription pills linger on the coffee table too. One every day - five p.m. it reads. For headaches. It's six p.m. now, I can't recall having taken one. I do it now. I'm sure it can't hurt taking more than one. 

The ticket to L.A. tells me I should leave for the airport in about half an hour. My flight leaves in two hours. I must hurry. My packing is experienced and fast. Within fifteen minutes I'm ready. I feed the fish, close the apartment and head outside. 

When I walk out of the back exit towards the private parking area, I see someone standing at the front door. It's Skinner's form that I see there. I would recognize him out of a thousand men. 

My instincts shoot in action. I push myself backwards against the wall, inside the shadows that hide me from his vision. I proceed towards the staircase, open the door, and walk inside, waiting. Skinner has a key to my apartment and this building. I gave it to him years ago. He walks along the hallway and steps inside the elevator. I rush outside. By the time he reaches my apartment, I'm gone. 

I unlock the car, throw the bag in next to me and take off. I shiver with a strange fear, as if I'm on the run. 

Why didn't I want to talk to Skinner? 

I don't know. I can't explain it. 

It's the notes, the messages and the strangeness of all this. I feel I'm alone in this world and will remain so until my death. 

I arrive at the airport and park the FBI rental car in the long-term parking lot. I must have bought this ticket yesterday, I see, at a local travel agency. All I need to do is get it validated, check in and within an hour I'm off to L.A. 

"You're in luck, Agent Mulder," the male receptionist at the United Airlines desk says. "We have plenty of room left in First Class. Would you like a seat there?" I throw him my biggest smile. "I would love to." 

He arranges the tickets, hands me back my passport and credentials and sends me off to gate U-42. I follow the signs, choose a small plastic chair in the far corner, as close to the counter as I can get, and wait. 

What am I doing, really? 

Can I become myself again? Can I ever become the old Mulder again? Is there still a Mulder inside of me that I can trust? 

I don't know. Perhaps I don't want to know. 

I live on automatic pilot, being controlled by the memories that I lack, and the confidence that something inside of me is pushing me to the limits. 

I dream of Scully, as I'm sitting in this chair waiting for the plane to take off. How many times have I sat here with her? How many hours have we spent in this airport discussing our new cases? 

How many times has she told me that my theories are way out there, and my thoughts go into all directions? 

I wish she would tell me again. 

Today, tomorrow, the day after. 

I miss her seriousness, her smile, her voice and her presence. Her thoughts, her vision, and even her disbelief at many of my notions. She kept me sane and now I'm not even inside the world of ordinary people anymore. I have become Max Fenig, afraid of chasing dreams, and terrified of my own shadow. 

However, somehow, deep down, I have this strange feeling that I only have myself to blame. It's funny, isn't it? I think I recall yesterday morning, yet all the memories fade away. They are being erased from inside of my head. 

I think of Scully and I have that hospital-image of her. It nags at the outer edges of my consciousness, telling me I'm missing something. 

I should reconsider doing this. 

Yet I walk up and board the plane, sitting in first class, refusing champagne or any other offered free liquor. I request sparkling water and lean back, trying to watch a movie on my little screen, while an old businessman next to me snores heavily. 

Finally I sleep. 

I don't know what Anterogade amnesia will do to me. I'm certain that I will not remember why I'm here, or what I'm doing. I jot down notes like I've done before and instruct myself on my next steps. I have a few L.A.-addresses to check out. I have to book a ticket for Vegas too. I should pick up a rental car there and drive into Red Town. 

Just follow your own handwriting, Mulder. That's the only thing you can trust right now. 

Yourself. 

Trust no one. 

Chapter thirteen: June 10 

Nausea overwhelms me. The second I open my eyes; I feel a new wave coming over me. My body doubles forward in sheer pain, rolling automatically onto my side. Someone holds a bowl or something underneath my mouth, and waits patiently until something comes out, but nothing does. 

I feel drowsy now. My body doesn't seem to react the way I want it to. I am tired, aching, and sore. 

"It's okay," a female voice says soothingly, and a hand rubs over my back, between the shoulder blades. I feel strangely comforted. 

I turn on my back and lean tiredly into the pillows, finally opening my eyes. It's the nurse who watched me and came to my aid. She has a friendly posture and beautiful features. "I'm Gail," she says, as if she knows I'm in need of a friendly voice. 

"Where am I?" I ask disorientated, and she gives me a wet cloth to wipe my mouth with. 

"D.C. General. You have been here since late last night. Your boss brought you in." 

"Why?" 

She smiles. "That's what the doctors are finding out. They took some blood samples and are waiting for the results. You will have a few scans today too." 

"What is wrong with me?" 

"I'll let the doctor explain that to you," she tells me, moving with the self-assured posture of a nurse who's worked in medicine for years. Before I can say anything else, she's gone. 

I try to remember how I got here, and why my recollections falter. A part of my brain seems to be unconscious, and the other part only remembers what happened before - 

Before what? 

Scully. 

In panic I rise up, only to sink back into the pillows. I'm so tired. I struggle against my own physical boundaries and crawl out of bed, swaying on my feet. 

"Mulder!" Skinner enters the room, stopping me before I fall forward. His hands grasp me by the shoulders. He's much stronger than I am, and persuades me to sit back down. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" 

"Something's wrong," I mutter.  
"You're damn right there is. You need to stay here so they can find out what." 

"Scully is dead." 

"No, she isn't. She's in this hospital too." 

I look at him and shake my head. "She's dead. I watched her die." 

He stares at me clearly confused. "What are you talking about?" 

"She fell. She crashed down the edge of a cliff." 

"Mulder, she's still alive!" 

"No." 

"You have to remember. I can show her to you. Take you to her" 

I shake my head. Someone is talking inside of me, taking over. I can feel it as clearly as I'm breathing. "She's dead," I repeat stubbornly. "I watched her die." 

"You saw her afterwards!" 

I look at him. He is a part of the world outside of mine. He doesn't belong here. He comes from before that fateful day, when she died. 

"Just get out." 

He shakes his head and lets go. "Mulder, you're suffering from a very rare form of amnesia. You have Anterogade amnesia. Do you know what that is?" 

"Yeah," I say wearily. 

"You can't grasp recent memories. You're living in the past. They are trying to find out how or why." 

"I was hit on the head." 

"Yes, two days ago." 

"No, today. It was today."  
"Mulder, it's the tenth. You were hurt on the eight." 

I look up in shock. I try to recall things from the past few days. There's this fog holding it back. I want to wipe it away with both hands but I can't. It's still there. 

"I don't remember?" 

"No. I found you at your apartment last night. You were delirious. I brought you here. The doctors want to do more extensive tests, to see if you might have suffered more serious damage to your head than originally thought." 

"There was this case," I whisper, "this guy had it." 

He ignores my words. "I just want you to stay calm. There has to be a reason and a solution. You will be alright." 

"Scully is dead. Marshall! Where is he?" 

"He's gone, Mulder." 

"No." 

"I killed him." 

I stare at him. "I don't remember. Why can't I remember?" 

"They'll find out. Rest now, you're exhausted." 

Skinner is hesitant to leave the room. Finally he does leave me alone and I find myself drifting into the strangest of slumbers. 

I dream of holding Scully in my arms, and touching her in a hospital bed. Then she opens her eyes, stares at me and tells me she is dead because of me. 

As I wake up, sweat pours down my back. 

I do feel better the second time around. It's nearly noon and my body seems to have calmed down. Holding the IV in one hand, I slip out of bed for the second time and use the bathroom. I wash my hands, neck and face and am shocked to see hollow eyes inside weary cocoons of skin. Is this me? I've lost weight. I'm a shadow. 

I need to find out what happened to me. If Skinner's right, Scully is inside this hospital. But why can't I recall that clearly? In the room I look for my things and find my jeans, a T-shirt and a jacket. Inside the jacket a bottle of prescription pills: One every day, five p.m. 

The medication name doesn't ring a bell. I take one, put it in my mouth and swallow it, hoping it will help stop the horrible headache that overwhelms me. I just won't take one around five, I promise myself. 

The same nurse walks back in. "Mr. Mulder," she says, "You should be resting." 

"I feel better." 

"I'll bring you a light lunch. You're scheduled for a CT around two." 

"Okay."   
I slip back into bed and she brings me some bread, jam and light tea. "We don't want to upset your stomach anymore," she explains. 

I eat everything and then curiosity strikes again. I want to know where my partner is, but they come to take me for a scan, and I know it will have to wait. 

I close my eyes while the machine runs over my head, taking in every detail that lives inside of my skull. I drift off quickly. 

A hand shakes my shoulder. "Mr. Mulder, we're done." 

I look up to find a technician smiling reassuringly at me. I have difficulty recalling a name. In fact, I don't even recognize the face. 

Where am I? What is this place? 

Sheer panic overwhelms me. I rise up, wanting to get out of this scary room quickly. A nurse rushes over to me and helps me before I fall to the ground, swaying in my dizziness. 

"Mr. Mulder," she says. "I'm Gail, remember? Calm down." 

"Who?" I ask confused. 

She seems worried. "I take care of you." 

"I don't remember you." 

"It's okay. I'll take you back to your room." The panic subsides. I'm feeling better. "That's better," she says calmingly. "I'll take you back now." 

I don't know this room, yet my clothes are here and I have slept in this bed. That's what Gail tells me. I am confused. 

"It's okay," she says, " They say you have Anterogade amnesia. That means you can't remember or retain any recent details. I'm sure that's what happened to you just now. You're in a new cycle of memories." 

I stare at her in shock, barely hearing her words. "You mean I cannot remember anything of today?" 

"Or anything that happened after the moment you contracted this condition. They said you had a blow to the head before. The doctors think it's related and want to figure that out. That's why you just had a CT-scan." 

"Will I heal?" I ask horrified. 

She smiles. "I'm sure you will." 

She leaves me alone with my thoughts. My god, I can't even remember this room, this hospital, and the scan she said I'd just had. What is happening to me? Is this what amnesia is really like? Will I recover from it? Will I regain my strengths? 

I need to know. 

Before I can slip out of bed, the door opens and people enter. Skinner is there, along with a few doctors I think, and the same nurse. Gail, I believe, her name is. I sink back into the pillows nervously; their seriousness startles me. 

"Mr. Mulder," the first, grey-haired man offers his hand. "I'm Doctor Willis. We spoke last night but you probably don't remember that." I shake my head. "This is my colleague, Dr. Rush. We are very interested in your condition." 

"Amnesia," I say. 

"Indeed. Assistant-Director Skinner has been so kind as to inform us on your medical history. We also spoke with the attending physician who treated you two days ago. He is out of town, so we couldn't consult properly yet." 

"What the hell is wrong with me?" I ask. "Can you explain?" Dr. Willis smiles a patronizing expression of a doctor, who knows better than his ignorant patients. It frustrates me already. 

"From what we can understand so far, you lack the short-term memory regeneration ability. This means that you can remember everything that's happened before in your life, up to a point. That point we are looking for right now. We have reason to believe that you suffered severe brain damage from the blow to your head, but the strange thing is, that your memory worked perfectly until yesterday morning. Mr. Skinner has reassured us of that." 

"That's not true," I say. "I don't remember anything from yesterday." 

Willis raises an eyebrow. 

"What is the last thing you recall then?" 

"Scully's death." My voice sounds dark when I spill the words out loud. I still can't grasp the situation. It is still not true. It's a lie. "And you don't need to explain this amnesia mumbo jumbo to me. I know what it is. I met a man not so long ago who had it. I'll forget everything we just spoke about. I'll always remember Scully's fall off that cliff, and that's it." 

Skinner shares a glance with the doctors. "Mulder, Scully is alive. She's in this hospital, in the ICU. I have told you that before. Don't you remember? You must recall being brought to hospital before." 

"No." I shake my head forcefully. "She's dead. I watched her die. Don't lie to me." 

"I wouldn't do that." 

"No?" I look him in the eyes. "It wouldn't be the first time." He pales, upset by my reaction. Anxiety rushes through me like a worm that needs to get out. It is stronger than my usually calm self. It's like a fever fighting to burst out. 

"Mr. Mulder, please stay calm," the doctor says. "We are trying to find out what made you sick to the stomach, why you're so nervous, and what's causing this amnesia. We have a colleague from New York coming over who specializes in Anterogade amnesia. He wants to talk to you tomorrow morning. We want you to stay in hospital in meantime to run further tests on your memory." 

"I'm not a guinea pig," I speak sharply. "I'm fine now. The nausea has passed. Don't think you can keep me here. I'll go home tonight and return tomorrow. Okay?" 

"That's not such a good idea. What if you panic, like you did last night? If you're alone at home, who's going to help you recollect your thoughts and memories?" 

"I'll manage," I say. "Just bring me a notepad and I'll write notes." 

"You underestimate the seriousness of this matter. I urge you to reconsider." 

"Can you hold me?" I ask. 

"This is not a prison. You are a free man." 

"Then stop treating me like some fucking fruitcake." 

Skinner approaches me. "Mulder, last night you called me for help. I brought you here because it's the best place where you can be monitored right now. You are very confused and upset. We need to help you through this." 

"I'm fine," I repeat stubborn. 

"You're far from fine." 

I relax. "If this thing - whatever it is that I have - is permanent, don't you think the best place for me to be, is at home? I know everything there. I need to be in an environment that's familiar to me. If you want to stay with me, Skinner, fine. I just don't need this psychobabble crap, okay? Just take me home." 

Skinner hesitates. I'm winning the battle. He turns to the doctors. "I'll have him back here by tomorrow morning. By then you'll have all the test results you already ran, and your colleague will be here, right?" 

"Yes," Willis gives in reluctantly. 

"Perhaps Mulder is right. He needs to be where he feels okay." 

I won. 

Both doctors sigh simultaneously, and leave. I promise to be back here by tomorrow morning. I don't think I will. I know what I want to do: I want to lead a life that is mine, and find the one person who did this to me. I know that Anterogade amnesia can't be reversed. That much I remember from Jack McCauley, the wealthy banker who tried to commit suicide. 

Up until Scully's death I remember it all. After that, the world became a white snow-covered blanket, concealing the truth. I will not recall anything from this day either. It will live in the back of my mind, hidden forever. However, I feel calm. It's as if this was meant to be. I deserve this, I'm being punished by it, and I accept it. This is my life now, for as long as it will last. 

Gail releases me from the IV, and helps me gather my clothes. Skinner has left the room. I dress alone, sending Gail out of here for privacy, and go through my things. I find a bottle of pills in my jacket pocket. It's small and contains about ten or so tablets. My watch tells me it's nearly five, and the label says I should take one then. Just as I swallow one, Skinner walks back in. He watches me. 

"What are those pills?" he asks. 

"Don't know," I say. "For headaches, guess." 

"So you have headaches?" 

"As far as I can tell, all the time." 

"Can I see them?" 

I slide the bottle back in my pocket. "It doesn't matter. Let's go." 

Suddenly he stops me before the sliding ICU-doors on our way out. He grasps my arm. 

"You're going to see her," he says.   
I bite my lip, shocked to realize that he is telling me the truth about her. I didn't believe him. Yet there she is: unconscious and very much alone. She could have been dead. Her body, her skin is a strange porcelain colour. She looks like a doll. 

"Is she dying?" I ask and my mind struggles with a million roiling emotions. How did she get here? Why is she not dead? Why did I let go of her? She's lying here because of me, and I turn my head away from her. 

"There is still a chance," Skinner speaks calmly. "However, you won't remember that unless I help you. You need to keep onto that, Mulder." 

"I want to go now." 

"She's not here because of you. Marshall did this to her and I killed him." 

"You're a liar! He's not dead." 

"I swear to you that he is, and so is the woman who attacked you." 

I turn my head quickly. "It was a woman?" 

"Yes." 

"Why the fuck were you so late?" 

"I can't help that now." 

I turn my back to him. "Go to hell." I storm out of her room, eager to forget the sight of her slowly dying, withering and wasting away. 

My boss takes me home quietly. He is nervous and I finally ask him why. 

"Mulder, I drove you home like this yesterday too and you collapsed a few hours after. I'm worried about you, and not just a little bit. You look like hell." 

"Thanks for the compliment. I love you too." 

He grins wryly. "I want to stay with you tonight. I'll sleep on the couch. I just want to keep an eye out for you." 

"Thanks, but no thanks." 

"Mulder, you promised." 

"I promised to be back there by tomorrow, but I'll forget that anyhow. I need some time to myself, Skinner. I'm sure you understand." 

"To do what?" 

"To think things through." 

"Don't be so fatalistic. They'll find out what's bugging you." 

"My brain will not mend. It's irreparable. That's the end of it." 

"You don't know that! Dr. Willis told me there are other ways to contract his amnesia. Some medication has serious side effects like this. That's why I wanted to see what you're taking." 

"They're just headache-pills, Walter. Nothing more." 

"You're a stubborn asshole, Mulder," he snorts. 

"One who is in control of his life." 

"Don't even think you're close." 

He stops in front of my building. I want to get out alone, but he stops me, putting his hand on my wrist. I wait patiently until he's finished talking. 

"Mulder, I've never seen you like this. You've been in some very dark places in your time but right now, you're walking through the darkest hell ever. You're taking Scully's accident so hard. You hate yourself. You were cold, Mulder, so very down. Nothing I say can take that feeling away from you. You punish yourself so badly. I wish I could turn back time and take that from you." 

"An accident?" I spit. "You call it an accident? It was murder, for goodness sake!" 

He stands frozen. 

"I don't believe in fairytales," I continue sharply. "You showed me how she is right now, and nothing I can do will change that. I'll be happy that this memory at least will be erased from my mind in a few moments." 

"Your place is by her side, hoping and praying. She's pulled through worse before." 

"My place is in the darkness. In hell." 

"Did you self-inflict this hell, Mulder?" 

I stare at him. "How could I do that?" He waits a second. "How?" I repeat my question hard. 

"The doctors told me your CT-scans came back fine. You have no head injury, Mulder. There's nothing to indicate why you would be suffering brain damage of this extent. They feel you are psychologically blocking everything out. It's happened before." 

I pale. "Fuck you, Skinner. I'm not a nutcase." 

"No one says you are, but you are very keen to forget reality. You feel certain that Scully won't get better. A part of your brain tells you that too. You want to ignore it but it will not go away. She's alive and she needs your help." 

"What good would I be to her? I should have died years ago, allowing her to lead a regular life. I pushed her all the time, Skinner. I made her stay. She didn't belong with me in the first place." 

"You gave her the best years of her life. Do you think she would have stayed if she didn't want to? She had plenty of opportunity to leave and she didn't. Doesn't that say enough about her?" 

"She was a fool." 

"She isn't." 

I slip out of the car. 

"Mulder!" He lowers his window. "Take notes. Please. If you're determined to do this alone, teach yourself about your past." He reaches behind him, and slips me a brand new notepad and a stack of Post-It's. Then he grins wryly. "Just don't tattoo yourself." 

I grab everything and walk up to my apartment. In the familiar darkness I sit down and throw the pad on the table. It hits Marshall's file that's already lying there. I reach for it and open it. 

If there is nothing I can do about this condition, then at least I can do something useful with my life. I switch on a light, read Marshall's details again, grab the phone and book a ticket to Los Angeles. 

By tomorrow morning, I'll be out of here. Screw their tests and poking around. I'll be searching for Marshall if my life depends on it. Skinner can lie all he want. My gut feeling tells me Marshall is still out there: I will track him down, and put a bullet through his brain. 

I dare not answer the ultimate question though: Have I inflicted this upon myself? And when I take out the bottle with prescription pills and read the name Ativan on it, I ignore the fact that I've heard this name before. If I take more of those pills, I hope that I will ultimately forget the nagging feeling that lives inside of me: that little twitch constantly telling me I'm doing something wrong and foolish. 

So I just focus on getting my man. 

What better way to set your mind to something else? 

Chapter fourteen: June 9 

My body feels sore from lying so long in a hospital bed. It happened yesterday morning and I've been living in a state of depression ever since. I don't want to be in this place. I just want to go home and take Scully with me. However, I can't, can I? She's lying unconscious in a hospital bed, dying. I know she isn't going to make it, even though the doctors say she still has a chance. 

Every time I open my eyes from short periods of restless sleep, I stare at my own two hands. They never sweat, yet two days ago they were slippery. I hate them. I don't want to think about them. 

I'm in the hospital too. I've been here since that fucking woman hit me on the head. I was very lucky, or so they say. A inch more to the right and I would be dead. She was Marshall's mistress. She defended him. God knows what he told her. 

The truth is, that Scully is close to death because of me. I couldn't protect her, even though I had the means to do so in my hands. Instead, I couldn't. Her body is too quiet, her mouth closed, and her eyes taped off. One broken leg is elevated to heal properly, one hand and wrist are in a cast, and the scars on her face betray she cannoned through a myriad of tree branches, before ending on a small cliff ledge that stopped her fall. There, they picked her up. 

Broken. 

Not that it's of any use now. I'm certain she will die. 

I lie very quiet in that hospital bed. I'm being released today. My injuries were not that bad at all. Yet my mood has never been so depressed and dark. It's worse than when she was dying of cancer, much worse than her abduction. This is reality. Partners stick together, help each other and save each other's hides. She was under my protection, as I was under hers. 

I failed. 

I don't want to live with the memory of her in that hospital bed. I know that I can't take it. I'll throw myself in the river, or put a bullet in my head. The memory of her warm body seemingly so useless, hurts me more than the recollection of her falling down the rocks. I can take everything, but not this. 

There was this man who suffered from a strange amnesia that altered his life forever. He had betrayed his wife, tried to commit suicide and instead, was forced to spend the rest of his days as a lunatic that no one believed. It wasn't his fault that he suffered from this condition, you know. Or so they thought. He hit his head and the doctors said that the amnesia was related to that injury. 

Only, it wasn't. 

You see, what the doctors didn't know before it was too late, was that Jack McCauley, successful banker and sufferer from Anterogade amnesia, did not contract his memory loss from the huge gash to the head. It all started two days before, when he visited his doctor and told him he was depressed and wanted to step out of life. The doctor diagnosed his fears as anxiety, and prescribed Lorazepam, aka Ativan. Generally this drug relieves insomnia, works on agitation and bad anxieties. Only, in rare cases, it also causes Anterogade amnesia. 

It was Scully who found that out. When we spoke to Jack McCauley, he remembered nothing beginning two days before his attempted suicide. He knew nothing after the first evening when he took the prescribed meds. He didn't recall trying to kill himself, waking up in hospital or being treated. The doctors blamed the hard knock to the head for it, and called him a borderline case. 

Yet Scully didn't believe it, and she found out that certain drugs cause these symptoms too. When pulled off the drugs, the symptoms will eventually stop. It took some research into prescription drugs, yet there it was, as a warning: `In rare cases, Ativan causes severe amnesia, mostly Anterogade.' 

By the time Scully figured it out, it was too late. 

McCauley died when his wife overdosed him. If he had only stopped taking the Ativan after the attempted suicide, he could have been cured. Only, nobody knew he was taking that medication. After the crash, he continued to take them and his memory remained faded. 

I spoke to Jack in hospital. He was capable of holding his own during a lengthy conversation. He spoke of things from the past, and talked about drinking coffee only an hour earlier. And then he would blink his eyes, stare at me and ask me who I was. It was like a switch in his head, and when that was turned on, he would replay his stories. 

I asked him what it was like to suffer from that sort of amnesia. He told me it was odd. It felt like a huge black hole inside of your head, that needs to be filled in constantly with the same information, hoping that something might stick. And then he said, "I cannot recall the last thing I have done and it feels good, because I know that what I've done wrong, was bad." 

I lie in this hospital bed now and ponder that conversation. 

What would it be like not to remember what you've done before? To lose that part of your memory, which gathers all the information that makes you, stir crazy? To lose that particular particle that tells you you're a murderer? 

I know what Anterogade amnesia is. I know what it does to the human brain. I also wonder if I can go on living, without remembering that particular memory of Scully dying. I would prefer to remember her being killed on that cliff. 

I ponder. I dream. 

I decide. 

Without her, what is there left for me? This is the ultimate punishment I can conflict upon myself. If I have the crap luck of losing my memory, I will become a man without cares. I will be a shallow image of my own self, but it will be enough. 

Yesterday evening, I guess I had already decided. After seeing Scully in her comatose condition, having been told by the doctors that there's no way to determine whether she'll live or die, knowing that she might never wake up again, I knew what I had to do. Forget what it's like seeing her like the vegetable that she is now. Forcing myself to ignore the past, and live in the short-term present that is mine. 

I hope that Jack McCauley's fate will be mine. I urge myself to go into that state. Can one dominate their mind like this? Pull that switch yourself and become only a part of who he was? 

I think Skinner knows. He hasn't left this hospital in two days, ever since they brought us in. He was there when I woke up yesterday, and he's been by my side whenever he's not with Scully. 

I spent the entire evening and night lying restlessly awake. I recall every detail of being brought into the ER, going through scans, X-Rays and mucho positive talk on how lucky I was. Even then, I knew Scully had suffered a much worse fate. I concentrated on her and did nothing to stop the ultimate darkness from entering my mind. 

After spending one night in hospital, I'm being released today. I have no serious concussion, not even a serious gash on my head. I was the lucky one. I pack my stuff and Skinner looks at me. I have not spoken to him since yesterday. He is confused about my behaviour. 

"Mulder," he starts, placing his hand on my shoulder in the friendliest gesture, which sparks tears in my eyes. I turn to face him. "Please, stop doing this to yourself. It's not over. She will pull through." 

I shake my head and turn my face away. I don't want him knowing the truth. He'll find out perhaps, but by then I will hopefully have disappeared off the face of the earth. 

You see, that's what I want to do. I'll leave the Bureau and this life. I don't want to return to any of it. Nothing matters: not even the ultimate conspiracy, or the truths that I know about. As far as I'm concerned, it's all over. Stuff this place. In my mind Scully is dead, as she soon will be. 

I'll remember you, Scully. 

I enter her room and look at her. 

Nothing has changed since yesterday. She is still warm, still unconscious and still on the virtual boundary between life and death. I know she doesn't fear death. I don't either. I fear loneliness. 

I touch her fingers, hoping it will be the last time I see her like this. If there is a merciful god, he will take this memory completely away from me. Reluctantly I let go, allowing Skinner to escort me out of the room. 

Skinner drives me home in silence. He's at a loss for words. I stare outside the confines of the car. I know this city quite well. I know the route home from the hospital too. I've been in and out of that place a couple of times. It almost feels like home. 

Even though I don't want him to, he walks me up to the apartment. He opens the door for me and lets me get in first. He even feeds the fish, while I stare at the couch. My bag lingers around somewhere: I hope he doesn't open it. 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asks. "You know you can get all the time off that you need." 

I nod. "I know." 

"Please talk to me, Mulder." 

I look at him in a different light now. I'm still angry with him for arriving too late at the scene, but not as angry as I am with myself for losing her. 

"Goodbye, Walter." 

He seems shocked that I use his first name like this. My words sound like a farewell, and in a way they are. 

He frowns. "Can I leave you like this and expect to see you again?" 

"Sure." 

"I'm afraid for you." 

"Don't be. I'm fine, honestly. I'll just freshen up and rest." 

"I'll pick you up tonight." 

"No. Leave me be. Please." 

"Okay." 

Finally he's gone. I lock the door and return to the dropped bag. I pick out the bottle of tablets. They look so small and innocent. Can they really cause amnesia? I don't want much from them, just a promise that I will forget the worst, and remember the pain. It seems so little. 

On an empty stomach, I swallow two tablets at the same time. For good measure, I take another one, and that it. They melt into my stomach acid, digesting into my blood stream. It may take a while, I'm sure. I don't even know what it will be like. What it will do to me. Perhaps nothing. Hopefully everything. 

I urge the tablets to do their work. They have to. I lay myself down on the couch, close my eyes and feel my mind drift off into a deep sleep. 

I wake up in afternoon darkness. The blinds are lowered, stopping the sun from entering and warming up the apartment. Still, the light awakens me, forcing me to deal with an upcoming splitting headache, and soreness throughout my limbs. 

For a long moment, I have difficulty understanding where I am, until I recognize the familiar surroundings of this place, and the safety net it represents. This is my home and here I feel at ease. 

Although, something is not right inside my head. I can feel it the second I start moving up and about, ignoring the numbness that now settles throughout my whole body. I stir like an old man, struggling with the aches that are so bad, my entire back and neck hurt. The headache is pounding, like sledgehammers crashing my skull. 

I am sick to the core. 

I rush into the bathroom as fast as I can and heave, but nothing comes out of me. Just are dry heaves, whilst something struggles inside of my body like nest of wasps finding a way out of a trap. 

I don't know what it is. The pain inside of me becomes more mental than physical. Something is bothering me but I don't know what it is. Where was I this morning, and how did I get here? I grab my watch and discover it's the tenth of June. I remember yesterday. I was in the hospital then, wasn't I? There is something wrong with Scully. It's serious. I think she might be in trouble. I held her hand. Yes, there's a recollection there. Something with her hands and her leg entrapped in some sort of cage. I see her hurt. The vision is burned into my retina. 

Oh hell. 

I need help. Someone to help me. To help me figure this out. I lean against the tiles for hours, waiting, sleeping and dreaming. I am confused and dazed. 

When I finally reach the phone to get help, my entire body visibly shakes. It doesn't take three rings to get to Skinner. 

"I need help," I groan. 

"I'm on my way," he replies. A click and he's gone. 

I slide to the floor and just lie there, as if my body has nothing more to say in the matter. The carpet blends into one huge black hole sucking me in. 

I am aware of people talking to me and arguing about me. They seem to be everywhere, poking my arms, feeling areas of my body and touching my head. I wince at their touch and am too tired to do anything about it. It all means nothing. 

Much later, while lying very much awake in my room, with Skinner nearby hovering like a worried cat over her newly born litter, I know that I have done this to myself, but even those memories soon fade away. They are annoying parts of a past that I want to forget, and a small obstacle towards an empty future. 

I don't know what I'll do. How far I'll go. How crazy I'll become. Grief is a part of the process to becoming mad. The boundary between the two is very small and thin. At this moment, nothing can stop me from descending towards the craziness. 

Not knowing is bad. 

Yet, it's not so bad at all. 

Part four 

Final chapter: The truth revealed   
June 17 

I am drifting far, far away. I'm off this world, into a space of my own. It's mine completely. I own it. I volunteered to enter it, and I'm not willing to leave it. 

Yet outside forces seem to pull me away from it, pushing me back into that part where everyone else resides. They are stronger than I am, tugging at me. The powers feel like lifelines being thrown out to me, to prevent me from drowning. 

I can't decide. 

Somehow, through the fog, I can see the image of the one person who is more than strong enough to draw me back in. She seems to be out of this world too, surrounded by an unseen force that makes her my saviour. 

Scully is smiling. 

"Come on, Mulder," she says, taking my hand. "You've been away for far too long. It's time to move on." 

I open my eyes. 

And there she is. 

"Where have you been?" I ask her hoarsely, because it's the first thought that crosses my tired mind. "You've been gone so long." 

She leans forward, seated on a chair next to my bed and strokes my hair. 

"So have you," she whispers soothingly. 

I look into her eyes, trying to find out where I am and how I got here. However, I cannot recall a single thing. Except - 

"You were dead," I whisper, touching her face. "Weren't you?" She smiles wearily. 

I cannot release her. I try to remember something, anything that brought me here, in this room, with her. The last thing I recall is her fall. And yet she is here, holding me. She can't be a ghost. If she is, she's one hell of an apparition. 

"It was all a bad dream," she sooths me. "I'm here, and I'm alive." 

I sink back into the soft pillows, hearing the intermittant beeping of a machine next to me. It's very quiet in here, but the world has fallen back into place. 

* * *

Assistant-Director Walter Skinner stands in the doorway and looks intently at the two people in the room. He feels like an intruder to the scene, yet he knows he belongs there. He is part of their world as much as they are of his. 

He can't keep his eyes off of them. He stands in the doorway like a protector, holding everyone outside who doesn't have anything to do in this room. 

Finally he does turn and walks outside, knowing that the world has fallen back into its rightful place, just the way it should be, but it all came close to being forever destroyed. 

He leans exhaustedly against the wall outside the room, waiting for the doctor who is on his way to check up on his patient. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyelids, fatigued after the most stressful ten days he's ever experienced in his entire life. 

Dr. Willis nods friendly as he approaches the room. 

"How is he doing?" he asks Skinner. "Is he lucid?" 

"Yeah, he seems well enough. Doctor, I don't think he remembers anything, and I want to keep it that way. Don't talk about -" 

"I won't." 

Willis opens the door and leaves it half open, enough for Skinner to observe. 

The A.D.'s eyes concentrate on Mulder, still not believing that his agent is alive and well, resting comfortably after days of unconsciousness caused by ultimate stress and an overdose. It was touch and go for a while, the A.D. reminisces, but the past is the past now. 

Yet he finds that he's watching Mulder, with the fear of a prey having escaped its captor. It is difficult to believe that, two days ago this ever-calm man shoved a gun in his face and pulled the trigger with the ice-cold stare of a cold-blooded murderer. 

That man was not Mulder. 

The one lying in bed is. 

Skinner knows that Mulder doesn't remember anything from the past week. He has no idea of what he has done, where he's been and what he has attempted to do. He doesn't know that Skinner saved the both of them. He'll never recall it, because it is erased from his memory, hopefully forever. Skinner does not want to think about the possible consequences, should Mulder ever regain some of it. 

He watches as the doctor speaks with both agents, asks Mulder questions and seems satisfied with the answers. Scully is very protective over her partner, even though she shouldn't even be in the room. Skinner is eager to take her back to her own room, only two doors down. She still looks extremely pale and exhausted, and her leg - still in cast - needs proper rest to heal fully. She sits in a wheelchair. 

Dr. Willis leaves the room and closes the door. 

"And?" Skinner asks hopefully. 

"The last thing he remembers is Scully's fall. That's it. He didn't avoid a single question. He thinks they ended up in hospital here after Marshall attacked them." 

"Thank you," Skinner sighs, relieved. 

"Are you never going to tell him the truth?" 

"Never." 

Skinner frowns. "That man, deliberately taking medication and forcing his mind into a state of oblivion, was not my agent. It was someone torn by grief and guilt, setting him off. I know Mulder." 

"Are you certain he will never do this again?" 

"No," Skinner speaks after a while. "But I'll have to take the risk." 

"And the Bureau doesn't know." 

"No. I brought him back on my own account. I wanted you to work with him in case he -" 

"The few times he woke up, he seemed to be fine." 

"That's what makes me believe he won't relive this. His memory is here to stay. It has to be." 

"I hope so." 

Before he leaves the A.D. alone, Dr. Willis turns and says, "There is something you should know though. Those pills he was taking - Ativan - were not strong enough to push him into such a state of memory lapse. He stole the lightest dosage from this hospital. There's no way they could have caused this amnesia." 

"What are you saying?" Skinner asks, thunderstruck. 

"I'm telling you that his mind played tricks on him. Basically? He did do this to himself, but in a much stronger, harsher way than we could ever expect. He repressed everything that happened after the attack, blocking out the vision of Scully dying in his head. He could have done this only with the strongest of will-powers." 

Skinner remains devastated alone in the corridor, as a million thoughts rush through his mind. He knows he should report this to his superiors. He should inform them that his agent has lost it completely. That he has pulled a trigger on him, almost sending him into death. 

Even though Skinner had prayed Mulder, would come to his senses that night, he hadn't. If it weren't for Skinner changing the bullets for blanks, while Mulder took a shower in the hotel earlier that day, he wouldn't be alive right now. 

Neither would Mulder. He would have destroyed himself too. The agent's total physical collapse proved he'd been on the verge of mental suicide. 

Skinner sighs. He knows he should do something, but he can't. He cannot throw his agent to the lions. Mulder has never been so vulnerable before. He needs him now. Nothing can change that. 

Having made his decision, the A.D. silently pushes the door and looks inside. Scully waves towards him, getting him to come inside the nearly quiet room. Mulder lies on his back, face turned towards the window. He's lost considerable weight and even in his sleep, he seems only half the shadow of the man he used to be. 

"He's resting comfortably," Scully whispers, her voice sounds as weary as she looks. She needs to get some rest herself, but is afraid to leave her partner alone. Even though she doesn't know the whole truth, Skinner knows he has to tell her. He needs her to help him too, and she suspects a lot. 

She knew from the second she woke up, there was something wrong. They called Skinner while he sat by his agent's side during his transport to D.C. . Skinner had insisted on further and proper treatment in the city General, even though the medical staff in Red Town had wanted to keep him there. Skinner knew he could never tell them the truth. 

How he had stared directly down the barrel of Mulder's gun, waiting for it to go off. How he had prayed that it would never happen, and after it did, it shocked the hell out of both of them. Mulder had fallen apart right there. Skinner had taken that fancy Beamer to rush him back into town, straight to the local hospital where they pumped and emptied Mulder's stomach contents, after testing him on other antidote medication. 

Once stabilized, Skinner instantly arranged for transport back, informing Dr. Willis he had found their patient. Willis had aided him before, when they found out the real reason behind Mulder's amnesia. The CT-scans that showed nothing, the late amnesia reaction, the pills Mulder had secretly swallowed, the Jack McCauley-story and Mulder's state of mind completed the picture. 

It was during that flight back home, that the miracle phone call came in. Scully was awake, and relatively alert, asking for her partner. Instantly alarmed he was not there, she insisted on speaking Skinner. They couldn't calm her down until she had talked to him. 

"Mulder had an accident," Skinner said, relieved when he heard his agent's voice on the phone. "I'm bringing him home." 

"What sort of accident?" she had demanded in a tired voice. "Can I talk to him?" 

"He's sedated. We're bringing him to the same hospital as you." It took Dr. Willis a while to calm Scully down. Three hours later, Skinner held her hand, comforting her with the idea that Mulder was resting in a room nearby. 

Skinner knew and liked both agents. He saw to it that Scully was taken to her partner's room, so she could see him for herself, although he answered all her questions evasively, hoping and praying that Mulder would come out of his ordeal in one piece. 

He had to. 

Only, Scully's inquisitive eyes asked questions that need answering, and he knows he will have to tell her the whole story. How can he ever explain it to her, when he hardly understands it himself? 

Poor Mulder, he thinks wearily. Poor, poor Mulder. 

Yet there is hope. There is a future no one could have predicted a week ago. For now, Skinner thinks, that's enough. 

* * *

I have the strangest dreams. 

I am in a small town with red streets, red houses and red cars. Even the skies are coloured reddish with orange flavours, where the clouds should be, and a big red sun that should have looked yellow. 

I see several people who come to me and greet me, telling me who they are. Then they laugh as I shake their hands, and say I won't remember who they are anyhow. And indeed, I turn around in circles until I see them again and can't remember who they are. 

A bulky man hits me in the face; a beautiful doctor kisses me, and a woman that looks as if she's had the whole town under her belt, strips me of my jacket. I shake her off. There's an old man, and a bubble-gum chewing girl, and a receptionist who flirts with me. 

In a bar, a woman spits in my coffee and gives it to me and I drink it all. 

I leave the bar, walk along the streets and suddenly crash my car against a telephone pole. The images fade into one. 

Then there's Skinner. I have a gun shoved in his face, calling him a coward and bastard, and then....I pull the trigger. The blast blows away his face: the bullet enters his face and splatters his brain over the ground. 

I scream, dropping the gun, and the world becomes a living, all consuming hell. 

I have lost ten days of my life and there's something else missing. 

It feels like a memory that is being bounced back; back and forth throughout my skull, setting off triggers here and there. It makes me terrified of who I am, and what I have become. 

I think I committed murder, or could have committed it. Perhaps there were circumstances leading me there: madness created by pure grief and pain. 

They ask me all sorts of questions. In the evening they want to know what I had for breakfast this morning. They ask me if I remember their names, their faces and what they said. The day after they repeat the same questions. 

Even Scully does it. She is worried about me, I can tell, but I am more worried about her. Yet she's recovering well. Physically she seems worse than I, but then why have I been lying in a coma for ten days, while she was the one falling off that ledge? There is something wrong, missing, and now they tell me that John Marshall is long dead. 

I think I thought Scully was dead too. 

I dream of it anyhow. When I see her, I have recollections of being at her side, watching her body slowly die. I look at Skinner and see him sitting on his knees before me in some deserted field, with piled up rocks and boulders, waiting for me to destroy him. And then he suddenly enters this hospital room, smiles nervously at me and tells me I'm doing fine. It was all just a dream, he says, as if he knows what I'm thinking about. 

I feel a strange sort of guilt towards him, as if I have treated him wrongly. I want to tell him I'm sorry, but I don't know what for. 

And I know that for once, I don't want to know the truth, although maybe I should find out. 

Should I? 

Should I really? 

End   
  


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